


I'm Waking Up To Ash And Dust

by ariadne_odair



Series: Walk Through Hell With A Smile [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Fanboy Phil Coulson, Genderbending, Hurt Steve, Hurt Tony Stark, Stephanie Rogers - Freeform, Stephanie is a bad ass, Steve Angst, Steve Feels, Thor Is Not Stupid, Tony Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 24,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadne_odair/pseuds/ariadne_odair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You might want to sit this one out, Cap," Natasha calls, as Stevie fiddles with all straps and buckles. "These guys come from legend. They're practically Gods." </i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Ma'am," Stevie says, and her voice is rough, though from tears or laughter she can't tell. "In my experience, all men think they're Gods." </i></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Stephanie Rogers didn't think she would exactly be getting up after crashing a plane into the ice - 60 years ago. She's not exactly ready for the future.</p><p>To be fair, the future isn't exactly ready for Stephanie Rogers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome To The New Age

**Author's Note:**

> So anyone who is new, welcome :) you don't have to have read the first part (though I do recommend it.) Just know that Steve is Stephanie and work from there ;)
> 
> Anyone else, thank you for sticking with me, I appreciated all your support on the last one, and welcome back!!

The world is different.

 

She doesn’t care.

 

She’s different too.

 

 

They lead her into a meeting room. It’s a blur of lights and noise, a haze of corridors and rooms and agents. A slow spiral as the world shifts beneath her feet.

The man with the eyepatch is called Director Nick Fury. He works for SHIELD, a peacekeeping organisation.

They’ve been searching for her for years. 

It’s amazing to have found her.

The world needs saving.

They had to lie to her so it was broken to her slowly.

There are aliens attacking, soon.

They need her to join some kind of initiative.

Eventually, they stop talking.

Stevie is sitting in a plastic chair in a white room. The ceiling is grey. Stevie is numb. She’s leaning back in her seat, legs spread out, fists clenched.

Fury is gazing at her, his forehead wrinkled. His brown eyes are pensive. He offered her coffee at some point because there are two cups on the table. She can’t remember. 

“Captain Rogers,” he says, and he flinches when she looks up. She doesn’t need to imagine her expression.

The weariness and the hurt and the grief is written in her bones.

“I want a flat in Brooklyn.”

Fury blinks at her, recoils slightly. “Excuse me?”

“I want a flat in Brooklyn,” she repeats. Her tone is deep and fierce, carefully controlled agony, gritty.

Fury frowns again. “I don’t think -”

Stevie leans forward. “Shall I tell you what I think?”

“I think I’ve woken up 70 years in the future, and everyone I know, everything I know is gone. Everyone is dead, every trace of my old life is dead, the America I know is dead. And the very first thing anyone tells me is a lie.”

Fury looks shocked, and shakes his head at the last part. “Captain-”

“Shut up!” Stevie shouts, and she slams her hand on the table. The cry half feral, ripped from her throat through no control of her own. It’s like she’s looking at herself from the outside, blue eyes flashing, muscles taut. Just so hurt it’s bleeding into the air around her.

“It was a lie,” she hisses, and Fury actually looks scared now, scared and astonished and taken aback. “And you’re still lying. You said you’re a peacekeeping organisation, yet you carry guns.”

“The last time I saw the cube it was falling into the ocean. And now, it’s been dragged out and experimented on and suddenly the world is being invaded.”

She lets out a humourless laugh, cold and unforgiving. “You expect me to believe your interference had nothing to do with that?”

Fury’s eyes are wide, his jaw slack.

“I’ll join your little team. I’ll help clear up your mess.”

She lifts her chin. 

 "But don't underestimate me. You think I'm a rookie at this? I doubt the public know about this, about me, about the aliens and about all your mistakes."

"I'll tell them. I'll tell them enough, I'll show them if I have too. If you try to use me, I will. Take. You. Down."

“If you try for one second to try and own me. If you try for one second to try and make me part of this. You try that, and I will burn you to the ground.”

Her voice echoes in the silence.

Fury coughs. 

He looks scared.

Stevie gazes back impassively. 

She's been playing this game for much longer.

“I’m sure that could be arranged,” he says stiffly, nodding once. He pauses, muscles tense, his mouth an angry line. “You know you’re not what I expected Rogers.”

Stevie smiles, and he flinches again. It’s not a smile, not really, it’s a declaration of war, warped with grief.

“It hurts when things don’t turn out how they're expected, doesn’t it?” she murmurs, and Fury stiffens, the background of that comment clear.

Stevie doesn't look up when he storms out the room.

 

 

A man named Coulson drives her to an apartment. He's balding and immaculate and very excited to meet her. He keeps shooting glances at her, then looking away.

They get into a black car. Part of Stevie notes the make, sleek and stylish. Different shape, faster, stronger. The car has a thin strip of leather called a "seatbelt."

"They were made standard in 1958," Coulson explains enthusiastically, sliding his into some kind of clasp. "It's to keep you safe if you crash."

Stevie looks at him.

Coulson frowns, then turns red as he realises what he's just said. "Oh, I'm sorry, I-"

Stevie just turns to stare forward. She doesn't change her expression, doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge him at all.

She doesn't put on her "seatbelt."

As they drive through the city, Stevie doesn't look out the side windows. Staring straight ahead of her, she sees streets, slick and grey. No bumps. Cars of every colour, every shape, every make.

Crossings with black boxes that change colour, painted stripes on the floor. She doesn't look at the people, letting the grey rain blur them. 

She feels a bit like the rain. Grey and bland and numb.

"You know," Coulson is saying, somewhere in the distance, "It's such an honour to meet you. I'm a huge fan. I read all your comics, saw all your films. You're my hero-"

"I'm not a hero," Stevie cuts in, tone icy cold and unwavering. She pauses, watching as a lone drop of water slides down the glass.

"And if I was," she continues softly, "I'm not anymore."

Coulson is gaping at her, eyes wide. He's so busy staring he misses the lights changing. It goes to green, which must mean go, because horns begin to beep behind him.

He swallows once, rubbing a sweaty palm on his trousers. He opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again. He doesn't try to talk for the rest of the journey. 

The lone drop of  water continues to slip down the screen. Another one meets it, the two paths merging together, the glistening liquid blending into one.

They arrive in downtown Brooklyn. Her legs are steady as she slides out of the car. She gets a glimpse of brown buildings, rain slicked streets, grey sky, and her stomach lurches.

She ducks her head, averts her eyes, clenches her fist. She can't look around, won't look around. Not at this.

Coulson produces a key, babbling on about the location, the price, SHIELD's connections. He steps inside, face nervous as he turns to check she follows.

She steps inside. It has a long hallway, pale walls that lead to a large kitchen. Marble topped counters, mahogany floors. Doors leading to a bedroom with plush blue carpet and cream walls.

She hates it.

"So this is what we found for you," Coulson twitters on, "It has food, hot water, everything's stocked up on. It, er…"

He trails off, watching her as she stands in the middle of the kitchen. He pauses, then clears his throat.

"I'll leave you to it," he says quietly, his eyes gentle and oh so sad. "SHIELD will drop off some files for you. Information about the future, the history of the last 70 years. Things like that."

He hesitates awkwardly by the door. He clears his throat, opens his mouth, then clears his throat again.

Stevie doesn't acknowledge him. He must leave because when she sinks to her knees, back to the shiny new counter, he is not there.

She doesn't know what to do.

Everything seems grey. White washed. Images blurring into one.

It doesn't seem real. It can't be real. It's as if there was some kind of exit clause that she didn't know about. It's ridiculous. It's unbelievable. It's like some kind of twisted joke.

She's 70 years into the future.

Everything is gone. Everyone is gone. It's 2012. 

If there was a time to cry, this would be it. But she doesn't. There's just this horrible, heavy feeling in her throat. A numbing poison that spreads through her.

She feels detached from her body; those limbs aren't hers. The blonde hair isn't hers. When she speaks, it isn't her words.

 

She wishes she hadn't woken up.


	2. Fire Dancing In My Veins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone,
> 
> I know I said I would update every Sunday, but I'm just feeling so crap right now. 
> 
> Sixth form is so so hard, and I've been working non stop. Also, my parents are away and my sister doesn't help AT ALL. 
> 
> So the house looks crap and I feel like crap and I'm so tired and I've cried loads, and I just watched to post this.
> 
> So sorry to upload that all on you, I just wanted to get that out my system. Sorry.

_Stevie is on her feet, her mind screaming before she's even aware._

_"Bucky, Bucky!" she screams, and her stomach is churning, her heart stopping, her mind flipping._

_"Bucky," she calls again, and, oh god, oh god, Bucky is hanging off the edge of the train._

_She pulls herself across, clutching the fragile bar, the wind screaming in her ears, heart thumping._

_Bucky's holding onto a bar, his eyes terrified and huge, and he looks at Stevie as if to say save me and she reaches for his hand and is ready to say hold on and the ravine is beneath them and Bucky is saying her name and he's all messy haired from the wind and she's screaming_

_and Bucky fal-_

 

“BUCKY!”

 

Stevie scrambles awake, hands hitting the floor, head slamming against the counter. She’s breathing fast, chest pounding. She blinks once, twice, slowly unclenching her muscles.

Bucky.

 She bites her bottom lip, hard. Gingerly, she pulls her cheek off the wooden floor, wincing slightly as it sticks. She must have fallen asleep in the kitchen.

 He’s still dead, Rogers. He hasn’t come back. Not even 70 years in the future.

Dumbly, she notices that the pain is still there. That heavy weight in her chest, the suffocating numbness settled in her bones.

She doesn’t know what to do with it, what to do with that pain, so she just shakes her head and pushes herself up.

 The cupboard is stacked with pristine glasses. She pulls open one mahogany handle and takes one, the glass cool. She pours herself a cup of water, the liquid smooth down her hoarse throat.

 So it was real.

 She doesn’t know what to do and she has no one to ask. Peggy is gone and the Commandos. She feels sick when she realises Howard must be too; surely he would be the first person they would send to calm her down if not.

 Is she just supposed to just move on? Pretend that this is some kind of blessing, that she should just take this as a new opportunity? An opportunity to do what? Was this always her fate, she was always meant to die and wake up and save the world, was that always planned for -

 She startles when she realises she’s crushed her glass. Small shards cut into her hands and she watches as blood begins to seep out. She puts down the remainder of the glass and turns on the tap.

 She watches as the water mingles with the red, watches as it turns pink and is washed down the sink. The silver metal is cool as she leans against it. The cut will heal in a few minutes.

 This is it. This is the future. This is where she is now and she can’t change it. She can’t go back. And she wants to - she really, really wants to.

 But she can’t.

 So what does she do?

 In maybe a month, she is going to have to fight aliens, real live aliens. Alongside a God and a big, green man and a man in a suit. She’s not 100% sure, she wasn’t fully listening to Fury.

 It would be so, so, so easy to walk away from this. She feels as though there’s some kind of cord, tethering her in place. But it’s frayed and it’s close to snapping, and it would be so, so, so easy for it to break free.

 This world is not her own, these people don’t belong to her, she doesn’t know anything about this Earth. If she wanted, she could let go.

 Completely forget who she is. Spend the rest of her life in this tiny flat in Brooklyn, never venturing outside and crying over who she lost.

 It would be easy. She can already feel herself beginning to crack, the fissures spreading throughout her. Her muscles are trembling.

 It’s terrifying how easy it would be to loose it all. She breathes in once, then breathes out.

 For the first time since she’s woken up, she feels something stir inside her. Something hot under her skin.

 Anger.

 Because that’s what everyone expects her do. They expect her to freak out, to be not be able to handle this, to have a complete breakdown. That’s what SHIELD expect her to do, that was what the whole damn facade was for.

 She’s not giving them that satisfaction. She can’t bend to this, she can’t let it get to her.

 It’s as if something is clearing in her head, the grief and pain and hurt is still there, but everything is sharper now, as if something is slotting into place.

 People are going to die. All she wants to do is crawl into a ball and cry, but she can’t. It doesn’t matter what will happen to her, in a few weeks she is going to need to fight once again.

 That cord is fraying and she doesn’t want to be cut adrift, then she needs something to fight for.

 Or something to prove.

 Stephanie Rogers is not going to break. She has fought Nazis, she has fought monsters, she has been present as her best friend died, this is - this is nothing.

 It’s different. It’s strange. It’s terrible. But it will not break her.

 Stephanie clenches her fists, straightens her back.

 She’s going to do this. She’s going to understand this century, or at least try to understand it but she will not let her break her.

 She’s different, she can feel it. She’s tougher, harder. Her heart is closed off.

 If this is it, if this her new life, she’ll do it alone.

 She doesn’t get to keep things.

 She doesn’t get to keep things and she’s not going to have herself hurt.

 

That’s one thing she couldn’t survive.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, that was a bit dark.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	3. Breathing In The Chemicals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone :) 
> 
> Didn't even realise I was due an update!! (Well, technically it's due tomorrow, but what the heck.)
> 
> So enjoy more angst, and never fear, I've written the Tony meets Stevie scene...
> 
> ...it's...um...explosive...
> 
> Enjoy!!

_She's standing at the edge of the lake, laughing at Bucky as he splashes her._

_He squeezes her hand, long fingers warm. She laughs again as he leans in._

_Then he face contorts, his lips turning up into a feral snarl._

_"You didn't save me," he hisses, and then shoves her into the water._

_It's freezing, a numb burn in her lungs, water filling them, until she's choking, gagging, unable to breathe,_

_Then the water changes and it's ice and she's stuck in this prison, the impenetrable cage and she's going down, down_

For the first two days, Stevie doesn't leave her flat. Just stares at the door, until she decides she’s being a baby and forces herself to leave.

(That’s a complete lie. She just can’t stay in the apartment when it’s filled with nightmares. The air is full of them, she wakes up screaming every night, and she’s choking with it.

She's still shaky, a thrumming in her blood, an itch under her skin, the constant cry of you don't belong here.)

She braces herself before she steps out the door, resolutely setting her shoulders and stepping out into the bright sunlight. Her muscles are locked, her jaw tight as though she’s setting off for war. 

And it should be funny, because she has been to war, she's crawled through debris, ran until she couldn't breathe, seen her shield glint as the sunlight hits it.

This is a new form of war, foreign terrority of flashing lights, ringing sounds, glowing screens. Steeling herself before she goes behind lines.

As her feet touch the pavement she feels as though she’s doing something taboo, that little shock of fear going through her, rising from the balls of her feet like when you stand at the edge of a high drop.

She blinks in the bright sunlight, as if it’s the first time she’s ever been to New York. Everything is new, new buildings, new streets, new people.

The buildings are taller than before, shiny glinting metal that reflects the sunlight. The streets are different, the cobbles smoothed out, flat and easy, dull grey. Houses that were there are gone, houses that were never there are here.

She’s aware her hands are shaking, and she gets a few more steps before stopping. She’s barely out of Brooklyn, and she’s stuck. Her head’s spinning, her heart thumping, and she closes her eyes.

 All she can see is Bucky and the Commandos and Peggy and she can’t breathe and before she knows it, she’s running.

 She turns back the way she came, feet pounding, pulse in her ears, blind panic spurring her. She knocks into people but she barely notices, tearing as fast as she can back to her flat.

She thunders into her flat, slamming the door behind her. She leans against it, breathing in once, breathing out once, breathing in once, breathing out once. 

Her whole body is shaking as she thunks her head against the door. Dimly she realises that she does this alot. Sitting on the floor with her back to hard surfaces. 

It's pathetic. Bile rises in her throat along with the self hatred.

She has to do this. She can’t just break down on the first hurdle.

She’s trying, she really is, but it’s so hard and she’s so alone - 

Angrily, she pushes herself off the floor, forcing herself to her feet. She scrubs her hand across her eyes, not for the tears, because there weren’t any, but because her eyes are gritty from lack of sleep.

 She feels so empty inside, so scared, just so alone. It’s as if nothing is worth it anymore.

 Jesus, she's a mess. 

She storms through her flat to her bedroom. SHIELD left some clothes there and she grabs a pair of jogging bottoms. She pulls them on then pulls out the end of her plait. She grabs her hair and pulls it into a ponytail, pulling it tight enough that it hurts.

Before she steps out the door for the second time, she closes her eyes and counts to ten. She forces her mind to clear, pushes away every thought, loses herself to the numbness.

Then she’s out the door, running as hard as she can. She doesn’t know exactly where she’s going, but follows a track that used to be in her old neighbourhood.

When she runs like this, it’s not so bad. Everything is a blur, the images merging slightly. She can still make out faces and buildings and sights, but they all go by so fast it’s not so intimidating.

She finds herself in a park, green grass and large oak trees. She jogs down a well trodden path, passing dog walkers, mothers pushing buggies, other runners. 

They all look different, their clothes are different, their hairstyles. The clothes are made of bright colours and fine threads. Even the dogs are different, poodles with trim fur, tiny dogs in...handbags? Large breeds that Stevie has never seen before.

She runs hard, she runs fast, barely even breaking a sweat. It’s...good. The rhythm of her muscles is the same, that easy pattern of pushing herself, using the super serum to its best ability.

She comes to a halt by a large lake in the middle of the park. It’s a deep blue, ripples spreading across it. Stevie looks across the water, frowning slightly. 

She stands there, hands on hip, forces down the clawing panic in her stomach. She just focuses on the green of the tree, the blue of the water.

She's outside. In the new New York. Surveying the world around her. 

Her legs begin to tremble and she has to turn and run again, fighting the gagging sensation in her throat and channelling everything into running. 

It's not shock this time. It's not even fear. The emotion is heavy, a lead weight in her chest, her eyes feel inexplicably tired even though she only needs a few hours sleep.

It's not shock. It's disappointment.

And the worst thing?

It's not at the new world.

It's at herself.

 


	4. Something Told Me It Was Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only short, sorry :( But, it does get much more interesting and much longer soon :)
> 
> Chapter dedicated to TheFuriousThunderShield and OneGoodEye :)
> 
> Oh my God, and teejplease, because of her bookmark review :) what a babe :)
> 
> (Sorry teejplease if you are now freaking out because I'm such a weirdo...hey, a girl appreciates good reviews!!)

Having established the future is different, it shouldn't surprise Stephanie that even the most simple things are so, so advanced.

 Take food shopping for example. The main diet of the orphanage consisted of porridge, out of date cans and various concoctions the nuns swore were edible.

 At the front line the troops were grateful for what they could get, mainly canned, rarely fresh and the main subsistence was adrenaline and relief that they'd survived another day.

 The supermarket is huge, blinding lights and thousands of shelves. It's a far cry from the vegetable market on the street corner.

 Take the cheese for example. Cheese should be good. Cheese should be normal.

 Go figure, it's not.

 There's orange cheese, white cheese, cheese with blue bits. Cheese imported from Italy, from France, from Luxembourg. Cheese made with herbs, with currants, with different fruit.

 It's the same for all the food. Stevie is used to a grainy, dull - normally stale - loaves of bread. Now there are thousands of types, brown, grainy, white, sliced, unsliced, rolls, baguettes.

 Stevie's childhood was based upon saving every single penny, making sure she stretched every dollar. Dull, basic staples which you didn't argue with because...well, because the alternative was starvation.

 Stevie stands in the aisle and just gapes at it. At this veritable cornucopia of culinary delight.

 When Stevie wanted to buy vegetables, she did not wander down the road to have everything prepacked.

 She'd wrap a scarf around her neck, covering her face from the harsh New York wind. She'd shuffle to fifth avenue and haggle with old man Jackson for a meagre handful of potatoes. She'd shove them all into her bag, cacked with mud and too hard.

 She can see it now, the dirt under the grocer's fingernails, the chilly rain slipping down her back, the streets grey-

 A high pitched giggle snaps her out of it and she glances down the aisle. She promptly freezes.

 There is a man pushing a buggy with a child in it and shopping for groceries. He's wearing those tight trousers that make Stevie feel uncomfortable and he's shopping for groceries.

The child in the buggy starts drumming her feet against the buggy, chubby cheeks flushed as her little face frowns moodily. The father stops and bends down, ruffling the little girl's hair, whilst talking in soothing tones.

 Stevie can honestly say she didn't know a single man in Brooklyn who took their children shopping. That was the woman's job.

 That's when Stevie realises things are different now.

 She walks to the library - which is thankfully still there- and heads to the history section.

 (She almost throws up, because she's history, she's the past, this is the future. She clenches her fists hard enough her nails draw blood and forces herself to step forward.)

 Then she reads and reads and reads.

 Women have rights now. They can marry who they want. They don't have to marry at all. They can "date" who they want, be with who they want, do what they want and there is no restrictions.

 Women can be lawyers, doctors, actors, police officers, teachers. Stevie gasps out loud when she reads a woman even ran for president.

 (The president who is black. Black. A Negro man is president. We've come a long way.)

 Contraception is huge too. (Seriously, Stevie didn't even know you could put that there.)

 Abortion is legal and you don't need your partners permission either. Stevie doesn't really know how to feel about that, but it's so strange women have control over their own bodies now.

 After an hour, Stevie sits crossed legged on the floor, glancing in awe of the pages around her. She runs her finger tips over a picture of a woman in army greens, breathing out slowly.

 She doesn't know how to feel...it's so strange. She feels...heady, light headed. There doesn't need any lies or pretense, they're allowed to do this now.

 She revels in that for a second. There's an itching under her skin, this niggling shadow at the bad of her mind, her skin crawling.

Stevie is neither stupid nor naive.

Sighing, she reaches for the nearest history book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo writing Chapter 11!! :) 
> 
> Also, just realised that's the most cheerful author's note I've wrote in ages :)
> 
> Next update: Thursday!!!
> 
> I'll be updating 4 + 5 today, because they go together!!


	5. The Hall Of Fame

A lot happens in 60 years. The 50s -the Cold War, the threat of nuclear attack. The 60s - race riots, the KKK, Martin Luther King. The 70s, hippies and feminism and protests. The Korean war, the 9/11, Live Aid, thalidomide, the Berlin Wall, don't ask don't tell, technology, terrorism, the new millennium.

Stevie reads and reads and reads and the world spins beneath her, spiralling out of control until she can see stars.

 

When she's walking back home she considers everything she's learnt. Her head is full of dates, figures, facts.

 Even 60 years ahead, the world isn't as different as she thought. People are still as greedy, humanity is still as cruel, poverty and hunger and pain still rife.

Only now it hides behind high powered missiles and corrupt leaders.

 But. But.

 For this new type of evil, there's new types of good. People who fight back, rebellions and protests, individuals who are ready to fight for the what they believe in. People who protest and actually win.

 The president used to be Franklin D. Roosevelt. It is now a man called Barack Obama. A black man. That would never have happened in her time.

 As she walks home, rays of sunlight cross her face, the sun warming her skin. There are people all around her, dressed in strange clothes with strange devices cradled in their hands. Tiny screens absorbing all their attention, oblivious to the world around them - the world Stevie's been forced into.

 Her feet feel the rhythm of the pavement and she bites her lip thoughtfully. Maybe...maybe it's not this century that is the problem. It defenitley has its problems, but so did the 40s. Even she has to admit there are improvements.

 She's stuck here now. Maybe it's time to get used to that.

 

Nights are the worst. She puts off sleep as long as she can, wandering around, reading the books she borrowed, drinking a glass of water as slowly as she can.

During darkness, the nightmares come. It's at night the ghosts of the past run through her mind. They've been the steady constant since she's woken up. She doesn't miss the cruel irony that with everything changing, her night terrors become routine.

She wakes in cold sweat, shaking and reaching for those she will never touch. She rises before the sun, watches the blue fade to pink to white. Her feet touch cool floor, the sensation spreading through her, the new day claiming her as its own.

She never cries.

 

 The first thing Stevie does is go shopping. Amazingly, she has a bank account. SHIELD or Coulson set it up, assumingly before she went rouge.

 Bank of America.

 Hilarious.

 She's more used to the strange costumes - clothes, people wear now. Before, Stevie had two dresses. Her everyday one, faded blue with holes in the knees from being thrown out of enlistment offices. A white one that was practically grey for church.

 She had her uniform, army green and a plain white t shirt for training. Then, of course, the red, white and blue.

 She wonders what happened to it.

 She decides she doesn't care.

 (She's good at it now, at shoving the emotions down, deep, deep down so they can't be found. Shutting off from everyone, building walls around her heart so no one can get in.)

 Now, people wear whatever they want - or so she assumes. She sees woman in tight trousers, ones that rival even her spandex. Short, short, short skirts that barely cover your underwear. T-shirts in every colour, blue, pink, green, yellow.

 Some of it makes her blush, some of it makes her gasp - and some of it...

 She's walking down the street because that's easiest way to see this new world, simply pausing to see the lives of those around her. She does it a lot - in the two weeks she's been here she's walked miles.

 Walked and have nightmares.

 Anyway.

 She's trotting down the sidewalk, trying to not look too much like a tourist in her own city, when she bumps into a young girl. An apology is on her lips, when she glances up and stares.

 The girl has short brown hair, and it's curled, chestnut curls bouncing around her cheeks. It's not unusual, Stevie has seen plenty of girls with curly hair in this century, but it's as if she's transported back to the 40's.

 Suddenly, she's surrounded by chattering voices, someone humming "who's strong and brave." Girls pushing to get to the mirror, slicking back stray strands with water, perfecting ruby red lips as they practise high kicks. Holding pins in their teeth, as they roll their hair and fix bobby pins.

 Stevie snaps out of it, the girl she bumped into already gone, rolling her eyes and muttering about weirdos. Stevie blinks a couple of times, the chorus of Star Spangled Woman still resonating in her ears.

 Her palms are growing sweaty, because now she remembers her own spandex, her own costume, brown eyes, kind hands, and Jesus Rogers, you wanna  give a man a heart attack -

She pauses outside the newest store. It's large, bright neon lights, dummies in the windows, large slogans decorating the glass.

She takes a breathe, then pushes open the door.


	6. Introducing: The Waiter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, during this chappy, we meet the waiter - my gender bender version of the blond waitress in the Avengers :)
> 
> Anddd to stir things up a bit, I chose one of my favourite charcters to base the waiter on :) some of you will get it, but it's not necessary :)
> 
> Enjoy!!!

Stephanie causes a bike crash on her way to a cafe.

 It's not intentional. A guy takes one look at her, can't stop staring and crashes his bike into a lamp post.

 Seriously.

 She brought some light blue trousers, a few t-shirts, another pair of shoes. It's a little difficult finding sizes, the bright store lights blinding her, but Stevie has fought Nazis - she can manage shopping.

 She hesitated in buying more, despite the overly enthusiastic assistant with panda eye makeup. It felt almost like she wasn't allowed to, like she was sneaking around. She's not used to being able to have things just because she likes them.

 Yes, she's aware that's a serious psychological issue of hers.

 She does look different. She's wearing these jeans that are tight, skinny jeans? She thinks that what they're called. They're tight but she's still comfortable. It's strangely liberating, being able to wear what she wants. Being able to chose what she wants, not what society decrees.

 Fashion is so different now, every colour, every material, every style. She can't help running her hands on the soft fabric, marvelling in the craftsmanship.

 She's wearing black cowboy boots. Um, she's not sure if they're actually made by cowboys or if that's just the style. Either way, she feels a little lighter as she crosses the road, the busy 21st century swarming around her.

 (She's not better. Not really. It hasn't failed her notice she's wearing tight jeans. Long boots. A white t shirt. Her consciousness trying to create a pathetic imitation of a long gone past.

 She's messed up, she's so screwed up, and her foot slips on the next curb.)

 She's sittting in a sweet little cafe on the corner, with outside tables adorned with blue and white tablecloth. She's glancing at a large building to her left, when there's a large crash, and a loud "Holy shit!"

 Stevie turns to see a guy in a waiter apron crouched on the floor. He's desperately scrambling for a bunch of cups he's dropped. He looks up, sees Stevie looking, and goes promptly scarlet.

 He's tall with fluffy, brown hair and big brown eyes. He's wearing a blue t shirt under his apron, and as he heads over, he stumbles over a cup he missed. He's blushing furiously.

 "Hey, I'm your waiter today," he breathes, eyes focused on her, "For the cafe. Though you don't really need a waiter because it's a cafe not a giant restaurant and I don't have a fancy uniform or anything just this apron which is a gross white colour and it's not even white it's like murky beige and you are so much more attractive than the people I normally serve which are crusty bankers."

 Stevie mouths the words "crusty bankers."

 The waiter guy slaps a palm against his forehead, muttering something about attractive girls and brain surgery. He wobbles awkwardly, then dashes off, calling over his shoulder "I'll get your order!"

 He scurries off into the cafe.

 Slowly, Stevie counts to 10.

 The waiter slopes back. His face is purple with embarrassment. He stops infront of her.

 "I, er, didn't take your order."

 Stevie smiles; she can't help it. For all its glossy magazines and shining towers and sleek cars, there are still awkward young men.

 "I'll have a coffee," she says softly, keeping her face deliberately deadpan. The waiter takes her menu, keeping his eyes averted.

 He hovers for a moment, then blurts "I'm Stiles."

Stevie replies before she even realises it. "Evie."

It's close enough to her own name that she'll answer, but why would she want to answer, this is just some kid, she doesn't want to talk to people, just -

Great. Now she's not only a compulsive liar, she obviously has severe attachment issues.

 She winces when "Stiles" walks into a table.

 

 

 She only realises that the waiter was attracted to her as she's walking away from the cafe.

 It's as if everything is solid, and then the world lurches out from under her feet. It slams into her, rattling her bones, drowning her lungs. All she can see is brown eyes and messy brown hair and a green army uniform. Her limbs refuse to move, her heart aching, every touch, her word, every moment twisting and twisting and twisting -

 - buckybuckybuckybuckybuckybuckybuckybuckybucky

 When she comes to, she's still standing in the middle of the street. People are eyeing her strangely before swishing away, clicking buttons on their tiny phones.

 Stevie swallows hard, rakes a hand through her hair, rubs her hands. She has no idea what just happened, so she just starts walking, her feet moving instinctively, carrying her away.

 All the grief and hurt scrapes her throat, and Stevie furiously pushes everything away, tries to smother it until it's unrecognizable.

 She's not over Bucky. She's never going to be over Bucky. He sunk in deep, under her skin, into her heart, and he never left.

 It's not even the waiter's fault; she just hates this ache, the twisting, pounding, numbing ache.

 She really needs, Stevie reflects, to hit something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter....a certain Man Of Iron enters stage right :)


	7. In Which Stevie Is Less Than Impressed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely forgot I update on Thursdays, bur here you go :)
> 
> Sooo the awaited chapter where Tony and Stevie meet..
> 
> As expected, things don't go brilliantly.
> 
> Enjoy!!

Stephanie hits the fabric hard; once, twice, three times. Her knuckles smart then soften, smart then soften, smart then soften. It's the miracle of the serum, isn't it, healing all the bruises on the outside, seaming together the pain, while inside she's broken beyond repair.

She's not even breaking a sweat, just relentlessly drumming the bag, harsh leather swinging back and forth.

 - yeah, the Stephanie Roger's type -

\- I can give you a chance -

\- who are you supposed to be -

\- ready to defend the red -

\- it looks better on me -

 - just be safe oka -

 - do you think -

\- do you think - 

\- do -

\- you -

-think -

\- he's dancing in -

-Brooklyn

With a strangled cry, she slams her fist into the punching bag. It slams off its hinges, flying across the room as it explodes. Sand bursts out in a spray of grit, scattering across the floor.

Stevie stands perfectly still. She's not even sweating, hair still perfectly pulled into a ponytail. She fights the urge to close her eyes, knowing exactly what will be on the back of her eyelids.

"You're even more attractive in person. Bit of a miracle really, but I guess those comics couldn't capture the magic of the voodoo juice."

Stevie's head snaps up at the voice, and she promptly freezes. She stares, heart thudding at the brunette man standing across the gym.

The dim lights illuminate his face, the strong jaw, the large brown eyes, dark hair.

It's Howard's son. It must be.

It's there in the colour of his hair, a rich chestnut. It's there in his eyes, clever, calculating, always two steps ahead. It's there in the arrogant smirk crossing his face.

The man moves closer, so she can see the sunglasses pushed up on his head, the smart suit that she knows - from her recent shopping spree - probably cost a small fortune.

Her hands are still held in a defensive position, she lowers them. A little buzz of irration slides under her skin, the familiar anger of people judging her. Sneering laughter in dank alleys to overweight bankers breathing heavily in her ear.

 "Tony," the guy says, all slick charm and loose grin, "Tony Stark. But you already knew that, right?"

There's something about this man that makes her itch. She narrows her eyes, straightening her shoulders.

 "You're Howard's son," she says evenly, and Tony's eyes flash dark for a moment, before he smirks a fake white toothed smirk.

"Sometimes," he smirks, "The rest of the time I'm a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist."

He actually winks at her, and Stevie recoils in revulsion. She puts her hands on her hips, raising one eyebrow.

Tony smirks again. "You know, I can't quite believe Nick let you go. Though storming out of SHIELD? Seriously hot. That coupled with blonde hair - blue eyes look? I for one would not say no. To anything."

So that's why he's here. He's from SHIELD. Stevie glares at him, furious at his comments, his arrogance, that fact he's hitting on her when he surely know about Bu-

"I don't need your approval," she snarls, "And I don't need a babysitter, so run back to SHIELD, and tell them. To. Back. Off."

Tony gapes at, glasses slipping down his nose. "I'm not spying for SHIELD," he splutters, "And I wasn't approving of you. Or not approving of you. Whatever. I was trying to be welcoming."

Stevie narrows her eyes. "You were trying to hit on me. It was the first words out of your mouth!"

Tony's glaring now, hands balled into fists. "I wasn't hitting on yo-"

Stevie cuts him off. "I know you were," she snaps, "I've been hit on by Stark men before."

Tony's whole demeanour changes, his face darkening, his entire body tensing, muscles locked in place as if ready for battle.

"Of course you have," he spits, face contorted into fury, "I forgot you knew dear old Daddy, didn't you? Well, not everyone is apple pie goodness, Rogers."

Stevie doesn't know why he's so mad. She has no idea how this has escalated so quickly, but it doesn't matter, all she knows is she's furious, not bothering to sheath her claws.

She's not even sure what that comment meant, and maybe that's the problem. Maybe that's the entire problem, the fact she doesn't get the future, and Tony Stark, with his red and gold suit, and his talking computers and his flashy sunglasses, so obviously does.

"I don't what your problem is," she hisses, "But I'm fully aware people aren't what they seem. I've woken up 60 years into the future, I'm perfectly capable of noticing things change, Mr Stark."

Tony looks taken aback; his expression wavers for a second, shock crossing his face. Then he blinks once and immediately answers back.

"Well," he says, in a tone of such superiority that Stevie wants to punch him. "If you're with the Avengers - and you're more all American than double cheeseburgers so I know you are - then you'll have to listen to me."

Stevie gapes at him, absolute disbelief on her face. Tony looks so smug, as if that settled everything.

She throws back her head, and laughs.

Tony frowns, eyes confused, shuffling from foot to foot in annoyance. "What?" he snaps, "What?"

"Oh Tony," Stevie sighs, laughing leaving her breathless, "I've fought Nazis. I've jumped over seas of fire. I've crashed a plane into the artic ocean."

"I've been awake in a different century for 10 minutes," she continues, tone amused "And I've already intimidated the biggest intelligence operation in America."

She cocks her head to one side, eyes boring into Tony's. "You can't even deal with me, how are you going to manage a Norse God, a Hulk and a super spy?"

She pulls out her hairband, hair falling round her shoulders. Perfect honey blond curls, slightly flushed skin, amused blue eyes.

 It's not an attraction thing, there's nothing seductive or provocative about her actions. This isn't about romance; it's about dominance. It's Stevie proving she's not going to roll over and take this. It's her issuing a challenge, because she's damned if she's letting this cocky fella try to order her about.

Tony's watching, eyes slightly narrowed and posture rigid. His jaw is set, but there's no cocky retort - he's obviously a little more than shocked by the turn of events.

Stevie gently pushes the punching bag away; it swings slowly back and forth, chain creaking in the silence of the room.

She steps forward, her steps slow and leisurely, making her way towards Tony. He flinches when she stops beside him, close enough to see the soft brown hair that curls just above his ears. He has a small freckle on his left cheekbone.

"Anyway," she says lowly, right into his ear, voice hardly more than a whisper," I thought you were the _consultant_."

She draws out the last word, and Tony stiffens next her. He makes an aborted movement as if he wants to hit something.

She saunters away, lips curving into a smirk. She pauses when she gets to the gym door. One hand on the frame, she turns slowly.

"Oh, and Tony?"

He turns around, face slightly flushed. "What?" he growls, voice coming back, "You forgot your training spandex? Or was it your 40s morals?"

Stevie bares her teeth, eyes flashing dangerously.

"The first time your Father hit on me," Stevie drawls, watching as Tony's face twists in anger. She shrugs innocently.

"I shot him."

Stevie may swings her hips a little as she leaves, replaying in the image of Tony's face turning white as a sheet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just like to point out, there isn't anything romantic between these two crazy kids. Stevie is defenitley still in love with Bucky...
> 
>  
> 
> …but that got pretty heated


	8. Mongolian Sheep Farmers With An Asbo And Claustrophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favourite chapters, because, oh my gosh, Stiles :) bless his heart :)
> 
> Just written the chapter were Stevie meets Thor, so have fun with that :)
> 
> Thanks to OneGoodEye for being lovely as ever :)
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

Considering that all three human interactions Stevie has had in this century, have ended with the participants threatened, antagonized or terrified, she really isn't sure how she ends up at Stile's cafe the next day.

Really, you'd think she'd want to lower her frequency of crushing dreams.

All she knows is, she's currently sitting at a table, trying to set fire to the majestic structure - that is apparently Stark Tower - with her eyes.

It's not working, if you were interested. Though she could break a couple of windows with her shield.

The thing is, she knows why she immediately hated Tony.

Firstly, it's the fact she still doesn't understand the future. It's a little easier, but she's still doesn't _get_ it. She's so cautious with what she does, what she wears, what she orders off menus, because it's oh so easy to trip up and fall straight on her face.

Technology flaws her; everytime she walks past the huge boards in Times Square, she stops. Literally, stops dead in her tracks, mouth open, people grumbling as they bump into her still form.

It's amazing to see the pictures dance across the screen, the colours vibrant, teeny tiny squares that build up a giant canvas. It takes her breath away everytime, and she can't help the flush of embarrassment on her cheeks. She blushes as the heat creeps up her neck, trying to ignore the fact she must look like a complete idiot.

Tony Stark, fits into the century like a fish in water. He IS the future, a sleek, graceful, intelligent personification of giant billboards and super computers and suits that can fly.

Seeing him is like a punch in the face, reminding her of all she's lost.

The second thing. Howard.

It's not as though Tony is a carbon copy; the family resemblance is there, sure, but they're not identical twins. It's just she looks at him, and it's as if God is laughing at the fact she can have Howard - just not the way she wants.

Not to mention, he did try to hit on her. Because apparently Anthony Stark does not understand tact or decorum or sensitivity. He's a jerk, and she doesn't need that right now. 

(She dreamed of Howard last night. She dreamt of fire and ice and pain, and woke up screaming. She didn't cry, she never cries, but the cold floor bites into the soles of her feet as she swings her legs out of the bed and stares at the wall.)

"Oh, hooolllyy crap."

Stevie turns to see Stiles standing there. His cheeks are pink, and the cup of tea he's holding is about to slop over and burn him. He catches it in time, face grimacing in mortification.

"Er, hi, er, Evie right?" he says awkwardly, all gangly limbs and fluffy hair. Stevie doesn't bother correcting him. It's as good a fake name as any. "Can I get your order?"

She orders a coffee, and Stiles goes to get it (knocking over a cup of tea as he goes.) He's just came back, and Stevie is still attempting the mental arsonry, when Stiles say: "Are you waiting for the big guy?"

Stevie frowns. "The big guy?"

"Iron Man? He flys past sometimes, people come here to see him," Stiles says, striking a heroic pose, hands on his hips, one fist pointing out. He looks extremely dorky, and Stevie trys not to smile.

"I always thought he was a little arrogant," she says lightly, and Stiles nods, eyebrows furrowing.

"He's not my favourite superhero," Stiles murmurs, "But considering his history..."

Stevie tilts her head to one side, resting her chin in her palm. She thinks of the discarded SHIELD files on the floor of her flat. They had been pushed through a couple of days ago. She had been reluctant to read them, certain they'd be full of bius and lies.

"Do you," she asks hesitantly, pausing, "Do you know a lot about superheroes? Or, just about Iron Man and...events like that?"

Stiles grins, eyes lighting up. "Are you kidding? I'm a huge comic book geek, the day Tony Stark admitted he was Iron Man I cried, seriously I was a mess of fan girl feels-"

He stops, face darkening in embarrassment. He shuffles awkwardly, scratching his head.

"That's really lame, right?" he says, chuckling weakly. He adverts his eyes, fingers twisting the dirty grey cloth of his apron.

"No," Stevie says softly, and Stiles' eyes snap up, widening in hope. "I'm...a little behind in the news, could you perhaps fill me in?"

It's just for information, and to be honest, this is a really good opportunity. She can get the unabridged version of events from a civillan point of view.

(It's definitely nothing to do with the fact she's woken up with gritty eyes, a hoarse throat, the images of chocolate brown eyes burning through her mind. It's not that she's going to let herself get hurt, it's just...it's just sometimes she wants to forget and talk to a normal waiter in a normal cafe in a normal street.

Stevie is a terrible person.)

"Really?" Stiles says, bouncing on his feet, "You mean all the latest? Because trust me, something is DEFINITELY going it, they can't fool me - you should see the Tumblr pages-"

Stevie isn't exactly sure what drinking glasses have to do with Tony Stark, but Stiles looks so excited she refrains from mentioning it.

He slings into the seat, knee jostling the table. "So, Iron Man. Well first off, he was just Tony Stark. Rich, famous, had everyone throwing himself at him, rolling in cash and girls."

He shakes his head in disbelief. "I'm pretty sure every seven year old said they wanted to be Tony Stark when they grew up." He snorts. "Every seventy year old too."

He looks at her curiously, breaking out his reverie. "But you knew that bit right? I mean, everyone knows that. Unless you're, like, a Mongolian sheep farmer."

He cocks his head to one side. "A deaf, blind, anti social sheep farmer who had an ASBO and, like, claustrophobia."

He blinks. "Which, would make it pretty hard to farm sheep."

Stevie is starting to feel dizzy.

"Anyway," Stiles continues, leaving the Mongolian sheep farmer behind, "Then he went to launch the Jericho - this huge missile - and was kidnapped by terrorists - though this bit you know right?"

He shoots her a fleeting glance, and Stevie shrugs noncommittally. She doesn't need to mention why she doesn't know that, because "I've been frozen in a giant block of ice" doesn't exactly cut it.

"So, after that," Stiles continues, "There was the whole is it a bodyguard, is it a plane, oh no, it's some crazy Russian dude -"

"Um, crazy Russian dude?" Stevie cuts in, brow furrowed. Stiles glances at her, expression mimicked.

"Yeah, Lanky Vanko, anyway -"

Stiles talks for a good half hour, filling her in on everything and anything about Tony Stark. He knows everything, though Stevie isn't sure if that's due to 21st century media or the fact Stiles hangs around Stark tower, stalking Tony.

Her lips curves at the mental image of Stiles hanging onto one of Tony's repulsor clad feet, desperately clawing to the red and gold. 

It's refreshing to hear from Stiles, so different from the corporate colloquiums she's used to - was used to. Whatever. Stark had used to built weapons, and it had made him a fortune.

"Blood money," Stiles snort, jiggling his knee up and down, "But now he's more into clean energy - saving the world, one greenhouse gas at a time. Stark Tower is going to be the first building in the world to run on purely clean energy."

He shakes his head, eyes torn between bemusement and awe. "Bit of a reformed sinner, but people love it. Heck, even I love it but then again he is my self admitted man crush."

Stevie doesn't even want to know. 

She's a little more clued up on Tony's background and he's defenitley been through a lot but - well, it's not really an excuse is it? She's seen men haunted by the dark claws of shell shock and they weren't obnoxious jerks.

She shakes her head, finger tips tracing the blue tablecloth. There's a red tomato sauce stain on it, and she rubs it absent mindedly. She wrinkles her nose, head to one side.

"Thanks," she says finally, and that is literally all she says, but Stile's cheeks flush a bright pink. He clears his throat. 

"It's fine, I mean ask me anything, you know, about superheroes, you know, comic book geek and that." He pauses, suddenly blinking rapidly as if he can't believe he just said that.

"Or Google," he says hastily, "Google it. Google is good. Just ask Google."

Stevie frowns. "Won't he mind?"

"Google? Won't he mind?"

Stiles looks at her sideways. "Well, maybe if you spill coffee on the dashboard, but I've heard search engines are pretty lenient." 

Oh, so it's something to do with computers. Not a person, Rogers. Something to do with the future. The future you don't really understand - yet.

There has to be a yet.

Stiles must be able to read the confusion in her face, because his eyes widen. 

"Wait," he says, eyes as grave as if she'd announced the apocalypse, "You have a laptop, right?"

Laptop? "Er, I, um, haven't, er, got one yet? I don't know which, er, make to buy?" she answers weakly, biting her lip. She's not sure if her bluff is even working, because she honestly has no idea what she's saying.

Stile's eyes light up, and he leans forward, white teeth showing as his pink lips curve into a grin. "I'm great with laptops! Seriously, most of my high school life consisted of -"

He stops his frantic bouncing of his knees, pulling a face. "You don't really needs to know the depths of pathetic my high school years sunk to."

Maybe it's the fact she's still a little raw from the Google misunderstanding - that tiny lurch of unsettlement in her stomach, the imperceptible twinge between her breastbone, the whispered voice of "you still don't get it."

Or maybe, maybe it's the fact SHIELD are going to call anytime now, and she really doesn't want to look pathetic and weak and stupid, because she doesn't know what WiFi is. 

(Because she doesn't, by the way. Apparently, it's not radio.)

Or maybe it's just that Stevie was bullied plenty enough in school, and she can imagine a young Stiles, with baby fat and skinny wrists, tapping away at a screen.

Maybe Stevie should stop deliberating the situation, and just take the chance. 

"Okay," she says hesitantly, crumpling her napkin in her hand, setting her jaw determinedly. "Lead me to the laptops."

Stiles looks as though he might swoon.


	9. Conspiracy Theories Of Any Kind

 

Turns out, a laptop is a tiny computer. It's really thin, too. Luckily, Stiles comes good with his claim, and leads her through it all, chatting about gigabites and syncing and memory cards, which goes straight over Stevie's head. 

Furthermore, she's able to pass off her 40's naivety for just being a bit of a technophobe. She just bats her eyes a lot, which flusters the sales assistant into throwing in a free charger. This is apparently a good thing, because Stiles gives her a high five. 

He even helps her set up her WiFi, which is some kind of transmitter, she thinks, that means she can can use the internet when she wants.

Stiles also explains the internet, which is, er, wow. For what Stevie can gather, it's some kind of giant global network, which all the computers in the world are hooked up to. You can type things in with a keyboard, and it comes up with thousands of pictures, files, information.

It's incredible, and Stevie can feel her head spinning, so she just picks out the nearest one. She hands over her card wordlessly, then waves goodbye to Stiles. He's late for work anyway, (she's not sure if he was even supposed to leave), so he just grins and turns away. 

It's not until she gets home that she realises she chose the laptop with the blue cover.

 

  

It's quiet in her flat. To be fair, it always is. The sky outside is turning deep blue, shadows being cast through her window. Stevie sits in her chair, running one finger over the worn wood.

The laptop is sitting on the counter, still wrapped in its sleek casing. Stevie stares at it for a minute, then gets up and picks it up. She runs her hand along the smooth, turquoise top, then opens the screen. It emits a blue shine, lighting up the room with an eerie glow.

Carefully, she clicks on the internet button, watching as the screen comes up. When she clicks or types, she does it slowly, but it's not like she's stupid. The serum meant she had to pick things up quickly, and she's confident she'll get it. 

She sits for a moment, just looking at the white screen with The Google sign on it. Chewing on her bottom lip, she carefully leans forwards and types in: Reoccurring nightmares. 

She taps on the table as she scrolls through the results. She rocks forward on the front two chair legs, and clicks on one that says Signs Of PTSD. She scans the text, and freezes. The chair legs fall to the floor. 

Her first thought, is I'm sick. 

I'm sick, I have a disease, there's something wrong with me. 

Her heart's throbbing as horror images of asylums, of prisoners chained up run through her head, of torture. She shoves the laptop away, remembering the men with "shell shock", their eyes wild as they flinch from bombs that aren't there.

She breathes in once, then very carefully pulls the laptop back towards her. She reads the symptoms - insomnia, nightmares, feelings of isolation - heart beating crazily the entire time. 

She feels slightly better when she reads 30% of people have it after "experiencing a traumatic event", - 10% of women. There's helpline numbers, therapist recommendations, advice for people who think they might have it. 

She's not really sure how she feels about it all, to be honest. It's - it makes a lot of sense, much more sense than the whole shell shock idea. And, it's - it's, kinda nice? Nice, at least, to know they're other people that go through it, people that could help.

Maybe. She's bit of a specialised case.

In the end, she saves the page to bookmarks (congratulating herself on knowing how to do that), and turns the laptop off. 

She stands up, pushing her hands on the table, pressing down onto the hard wood for balance. The carpet is cool under her feet as she slips into her new pyjamas, blue checked sleeping slacks with a matching vest top.

She pulls the curtains shut and slips into bed.

 

 

When she wakes up that night, she doesn't open her eyes right away. She squeezes them shut, but that's not much better, because that means she can still see fire and ice and Bucky.

The ache in her chest is always raw at this time, the dark light barely visible through the curtains, the low roar of car engines outside as people head to work.

She pulls the sheets over her head. Her chest physically hurts, her throat feels scraped raw, her head throbbing. She blinks frantically, deep brown eyes swimming in her vision. 

She can't shut her eyes, but she doesn't want to open them.

 

  

"Can I have your email address?"

Stevie doesn't even look up from her drawing. "No."

Stiles pouts at her from where he's slid into the empty chair. He's drumming his fingers on the table, an erratic tempo. He's a bundle of restless energy as usual.

"Come on, Evie, I helped you choose a laptop," Stiles whines, still pouting. He's wearing the blue t shirt again. He always wears it, though she can only see the shoulders - the rest is obscured by his apron.

"No, Stiles," Stevie says, rolling her eyes, while carrying on her shading. She's doodling Stark Tower on her napkin. She might draw Tony falling out one of the windows. "You'll send me conspiracy theories about New Mexico."

That isn't really a lie; Stevie actually has no idea how to use "email", but if she did, Stiles would defenitley send her conspiracy theories of any kind.

Stiles glares at her, flicking a sugar packet in her direction. "Oh my God, there was SOMETHING going on, that entire town was attacked, and everyone knows the training exercise excuse is crap -" 

"They found a hamner, Stiles," Stevie replies in a bored tone. She's keeping her face deliberately deadpan, trying not to laugh. She'd forgotten how fun keeping secrets is.

Stiles looks disgruntled, and throws another sugar packet at her. "Exactly! A hammer, Evie! A giant, big ass hammer -" 

"Shouldn't you be working?" 

Stiles glares at her, brown eyes narrowed. Stevie tries not to smile.

"Evie," he says, tone deadly serious, "I'm sure you've never seen anything as weird as a giant hammer slap bang in the middle of the desert."

Stevie hides her smirk behind her hand. "No," she lies, "I guess I haven't."


	10. The Sweetest Send Off

 

The phone call comes the next day.

If Stevie's honest, she wasn't aware she had a phone. It's not like she's enamoured with her apartment, adores it so much she's explored every corner. In the past two weeks, her time has been evenly sectioned into walking, having nightmares and researching things on her laptop.

So, when the shrill ring starts, Stevie jumps out of her skin. After a moment of oh-my-gosh-what-is-that, she makes her way down the hall. There's a sleek black phone there, one with buttons. It's a far cry from the rotary dial ones of the 40's.

Stevie cocks her head to one side, and gingerly presses the green button. Green for go.

"Captain Rogers."

Stevie presses the phone to her ear, eyebrows crinkling. A prickle of apprehension runs across her skin, and she shivers involuntary. She doubts this is a social call.

"Speaking."

"We need you to come in," a familiar voice says, and Stevie's stomach flips. There's a pause. "There's been a development. A car will be outside your flat in two hours."

Stevie shuffles, resting her weight on one leg, then the other. "Is that Agent Coulson?" she says finally, clutching the phone tightly.

There's another pause. Finally, in a voice that's trying very, very hard not to sound like he's excited by that, says: "Yes, yes this is." 

"I thought so," Stevie says thoughtfully, because she likes messing with people who lie to her, and because she can't unpeel her hands from the phone.

"Er, well," Coulson says, apparently unsure of how to reply to that, "We'll see you in two hours."

Stevie hangs up, and with extreme care, puts down the phone.

It feels like the first time she left the apartment. Adrenalin is flooding her veins, sparks of fear and excitement spreading through her. She feels numb, but at the same time more alive than ever. 

This is it. It's happening, there's going to be aliens and monsters, and in two hours - in two hours, there will be Captain America.

She hasn't even considered that. Considered what it'll be like to wear it again, pull on the red boots, the blue spandex. She catches herself thinking about the last time she wore it, and stops. 

She's about to grab some clothes, when she realises something. 

Stiles.

And, damn, that's so stupid, he's just a kid, he doesn't mean anything, he's a waiter it's just -

\- it's just, Stevie didn't get to say goodbye to a lot of people. And even if this is nothing like that, she can't just disappear on Stiles.

Stevie doesn't know when she started getting a conscience. She's still wakes up screaming, and it still hurts, and she really doesn't want to see Stark or SHIELD AT ALL, but she can't... 

She can't leave another loose end. However fragile and tentative this new life is, she can't just leave it behind without some kind of resolution.

Sighing, she grabs the keys to her flat and hurries out the door.

 

  

The guy working the till turns bright red when Stevie asks for Stiles. He stutters madly, before going to grab him, blushing all the while. Stevie smiles slightly - she always forgets the serum changed her apperance, the reactions are always a shock.

Stiles comes out, wiping his hand on his apron, wearing his usual blue t shirt underneath. His brown eyes are wide, and he gestures at her usual table.

She slips into a chair, and so does Stiles. He raises one eyebrow, and opens his mouth to make a sarcastic remark, but Stevie cuts him off.

"I'm going out of town for a bit," she says firmly, refusing to break eye contact and keeping her chin up. "So, I just wanted to say thank you for the help with the laptop." 

Stiles is looking at her. It's a bit disconcerting, because Stiles is normally full of energy, tapping his fingers, jiggling his knees, waving his hands as he babbles excitedly about a new "app."

Currently, Stiles is sitting perfectly still. He's gazing at Stevie with big soulful eyes, mouth pursed slightly as if he's deliberating a huge problem.

"Are you," he says finally, tone grave and deep, "Going to find the guy?"

The bottom falls out of Stevie's stomach.

She gapes at him, throat closing up. "What?" she chokes, barely managing to get it out, "What guy?" 

She can't breathe, hands fisted into the blue tablecloth. He can't know, can he? He can't possibly know about, about Bucky. 

"Not to quote Sherlock - well, actually, yeah, quoting Sherlock, because Benedict Cumberbatch's curls, dear Lord, anyway -" Stiles shakes his head, eyes still fixed on Stevie's. 

"You look sad," he says softly, and Stevie finds herself blinking rapidly. "You look sad," he repeats quietly, "All the time. As if - as if you've lost everything. So, I figured you were heartbroken, right?"

He sends her a cheeky grin, one that's still mixed with sorrow. "It's why I never hit on you, because trust me, you are ridiculously attractive Evie, but - but there's someone else, isn't there? That's who you're going to go see." 

He looks so earnest, so sincere, and Stevie can feel all that pain again, like a bruise that's being pushed down on, a steady growing agony.

"He's dead," Stevie whispers, and there, there it is.

The statement lies heavy between them. It can't be ignored. It can't be pushed away. It just lays there, an iron cage around Stevie's heart.

Stiles is looking at her in shock, eyes wide, his jaw open. He swallows awkwardly. He makes a little aborted movement with his hand, as if he wants to reach out, but stops. 

Stevie would have pulled back.

She always pulls back.

Stiles clears his throat once, then looks up at her. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, and now Stevie really wants to cry. She nods stiffly.

"Can I -" Stiles hesitates, then bravely plunders on, "Can I give you a hug?" 

It's so unexpected, and a laugh snaps out of Stevie before she can help it. Her smiles is lopsided, but she nods. "Sure."

"Right," Stiles says, grinning now, trying to lighten the atmosphere, "Let me just take off this apron first. Pretty sure humans aren't meant to come into contact with it -"

Stevie doesn't hear what he says, because she's too busy staring at his t shirt. Literally, gawking at the blue t shirt he always wears, that is finally revealed as he pulls off his apron.

" -became there was this one stain - what? What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Stiles," Stevie says,"Is that -"

"Shut up," Stiles says, turning absolutely puce, "I like it okay. It's a good t shirt. It's a great t-shirt. Other t-shirts should build monuments and sacrifice, like, bikinis to this God of a t-shirt."

"Can't complain," Stevie shrugs, huge grin crossing her face.

And she can't, not without being self deprecating, because it's a Captain America t-shirt.

It's blue, blue and has her shield on it. The red, white and blue with a big silver star.

Stevie considers Stile's reaction if he found out she was Captain America.

"Look, I know she's technically not a comic book hero," Stiles snaps, pulling at the hem, "But I kinda believe all the hype, and she was really bad ass, and - I just think she wouldn't have laughed at me for being a dork, okay?"

Stevie really doesn't have time to go into the depths of Stile's obsession with superheroes, or his childhood issues, but right now she owes him. Because, 10 minutes ago, she was about to cry, and now she feels like she can do this.

Reaching over, she hugs Stiles. It's quick, and she almost can't do it, but she does, and when she pulls back, Stiles looks like he's hyperventilating.

"Bye, Stiles," she says sweetly, getting up.

Stiles slumps in his chair, face a picture of shock. He says something along the lines of "hdhdfignaoagif", and waves a hand vaguely.

It's the best send off she's ever had.


	11. Packed your bags real good, baby, you'll be gone for a while

 

She has a shower and changes her clothes when she gets back home. It's as if she's donning her armour, and she is going into battle, isn't she? Lots of different ones at the same time.

She can feel herself getting into that headspace, the one where her senses are especially high, strategies ready to be planned, adrenalin looping her body. She's been working out a lot since the day she met Tony; she's more than ready for a old fashioned knock down. 

She's not scared, not really. It's more like apprehension. Despite all her knowledge of laptops, two weeks isn't that long to get to grasps with the 21st century. It's not even technology, it's how to interact with people, the tiny social norms that she knows nothing about. 

Once she's finished, she gazes at her reflection. Her suit must be at SHIELD, so she picked out some of her new clothes.

She's wearing her favourite jeans, not tight enough to make her look like a two piece whore, but nice enough that she looks good. Her black boots are sturdy whilst being fashionable. Her white t-shirt is simple but shows off her collarbones. 

Her hair is down, honey blond, curling around her shoulders. Stevie decides to leave it down. Her eyelashes are long, golden lashes touching her cheeks. Her eyes - well. They're a deep blue, and they've always been her favourite feature, even before the serum. They look icy, dangerous. As if she's daring someone to set her off. 

She looks like a 21st century assassin. 

Stevie quite likes that idea. 

She takes a little stroll around her apartment, waiting for the SHIELD car. She wanders into the bedroom, the bed sheets rumpled from where she'd woken up last night.

Woken up screaming and sweating and forever reaching out.

This, going off to war, it feels as if she's leaving something behind. She won't be able to dwell on the past when the future is in danger. 

She purses her lips, letting the image of brown eyes flash through her mind. The image is so vivid, it could almost be real.

But it's not. 

Carefully, she makes her bed, tucking in the corners, smoothing down the covers, fluffing the pillows. She stands in that little moment of silence, letting herself get lost in the past.

The a car beeps outside, and Stephanie Rogers turns to face her future.

 

  

The SHIELD car is sleek and black, completely inconspicuous in the quiet Brooklyn street. Then again, Captain America is living there, and people don't even notice.

The driver, a tall man in dark glasses opens the door, and she slips in. The seats are leather, comfortable. A red haired woman is sitting in the other seat, and she looks up from the files on her lap.

"Captain Rogers." 

Stevie smirks. "Agent Romanov."

Because it is Natasha Romanov, AKA the Black Widow, AKA SHIELD agent, AKA Russian super spy.

Natasha is the kind of breathtaking beautiful, the kind that makes men freeze up when she walks by.

She's got vibrant, crimson hair, that's cut short in curls. They glint in the sunlight that shines through the small car window. Clever green eyes, smart and assessing and calculating. She's petite, lithe muscles that are elegant and graceful, poised for anything.

Natasha hands her a file. "Loki, brother of Thor Odinson, has infiltrated the SHIELD base where the Teseract was being held. He's successfully retrieved the cube, and has performed some kind of mind control on two Agents, as well as the main scientist that was working on the cube." 

Stevie flicks through the files, tracing the photo of the Teseract. She keeps calm even as her stomach lurches; it's been so long since she's seen it. 

"We've been bringing in all the Avengers," Romanov continues, eyes fixed on Stevie's face. "Coulson has gone after Stark -" 

Without even thinking about it, Stevie says: "If you mention Stark, I will kick you out this car."

There's a beat of silence, then Natasha says neutrally, "I'd like to see you try." 

Stevie's head snaps up in shock, because everyone she's met has treated her with kid gloves, and Natasha just smirks at her. Stevie cocks her head to one side, then smirks back. 

Death threats are probably how women bond these days, so Point 1 for Stevie on The Not Completely Sucking At This New Century Chart.

"You don't like Stark?" Natasha asks casually, though she's definitely smirking.

"You going to pretend that SHIELD haven't been tracking my every move?" Stevie answers, and Natasha smirks even more.

"I was his secretary once, undercover." 

"I bet that was an...experience." 

"It was."

That's all they say for the rest of the journey, but Stevie catches Natasha looking at her every so often. She ignores it, and reads through the files. Stiles would have a field day, Stevie notes, as she reads through the complexities of Asgard fraternity.

The car pulls up on what looks like an airbase; there's pilots, SHIELD agents running in suits, various complicated tech being pulled around. It's definitely...different, and Stevie winds down her window to look.

It's when she gets out of the car, that there's a problem. SHIELD were most likely to expect Captain America to step out of the car in a knee length skirt, hair neatly pinned back, sensible, practical clothes. On the more emotional slant, they probably expected a blubbering, bewildered, quivering mess. 

What they get, is Captain America in skinny jeans.

Additionally, Stevie doesn't even try to be hospitable, so she has a "touch me and I will rip out your spine" expression on her face.

She doesn't even need the expression, people are already crying over the skinny jeans. It's a little like the bike crashing episode, only people are carrying potential weapons, so it's a bit more dangerous.

Stevie would feel concerned, but these people did lie to her, so ho hum, cut your losses and all that.

Natasha obviously approves of this "let the world burn" approach, because she doesn't try to help the guy who trips up when Stevie walks by.

"Dr Banner," Natasha calls out, as they're walking across the base, and Stevie gets ready to meet her third Avenger.

It's fair to say her hopes aren't exactly high.

 


	12. You're My Kill Of The Night

 

Stevie isn't sure what she expected of Bruce Banner. She knew he was a brilliant scientist, had worked with the super serum, and sometimes turned into a growling, green giant.

And the only reason he turned into said giant, was because whatever way he'd used the serum hadn't worked. Stevie knew that road was particularly dark and deceptive, but the fact remained; Bruce was a monster and Stevie was the epitome of human perfection. 

As if the situation wasn't awkward enough. 

Banner has curly brown hair, big brown eyes, and a tangible air of self hatred. Stevie can see it in his dark pupils, in the nervous way he tugs his worn jacket. 

He ambles over, looking completely lost, eyes darting around nervous. He catches sight of Stevie, and his eyes widen. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling up the curls.

"Wow," he says, and his voice is surprisingly rich. His lips curve up into a small smile, one that doesn't reach his eyes. "It's really you. Captain America."

He licks his lips, probably a nervous habit. "I don't remember the skinny jeans on the recruitment posters."

His smile wobbles slightly, as if he feels he's done something wrong. Stevie has no idea how he does it, but this man, who can turn into the Hulk, looks like the one little boy who doesn't get picked for the team.

Stevie grins slightly, and says: "No, they decided the skirt - tiara combo would be more appealing," and Bruce's eyes light up a little.

"Word is you can find the cube," she adds casually, and Bruce's face immediately shuts off, all humour draining from it.

"Is that the only word on me?" he asks, barely a whisper, bitterness embedded in his tone. 

Stevie shrugs. "I head you're competition."

Bruce's brow crinkles. "Competition for what?"

Stevie gives him her biggest shit-eating grin. "For who wants to be here least." 

Bruce blinks at her, then lets out a tiny snort. He clamps a hand over his mouth, as if he can't believe he just laughed.

"You may want to step inside," Natasha says, and Stevie jumps because she forgot she was there. Evidently, Natasha is some kind of ninja.

"It's going to get a little hard to breathe." 

Which is how Stevie finds out she is, in fact, on a giant plane. 

Perfect.

 

 

Fury's face when he sees her is priceless. He takes in her ensemble, the skinny jeans, the boots, the expression on her face, and for a second, she thinks he might cry. 

It is **hilarious**.

"Rogers," he says stiffly, remaining brown eye twitching.

He was obviously trying to make a dramatic entrance; the helicarrier is impressive, like something out of a movie. Fury is like the foreboding Captain of an intergalactic sea vessel. 

However, he's not Captain America in skinny jeans. 

Stevie would just like to point that out. 

"It's a pleasure to see you again," he continues, and Stevie can tell he's trying to get on her good side, that he needs America's golden girl to back him.

"I'd love to return the sentiment," Stevie replies, her tone like steel, "But I try not to tell lies." 

She smiles at him, but it's more of a baring of teeth. "How's that working out for you?"

Fury's entire posture freezes up, muscles locking. He glares at her, mouth ready for an angry retort, but Stevie just pushes herself off the desk and walks away. Fury is left at the helm, radiating anger. 

She's still angry at him, still absolutely furious. It's not just the lies, it's the underestimation. It brings back memories of jeering taunts, always being the wall flower, the fact she's not good enough - for anybody. 

Coulson is over looking the balcony when she sidles up to him. He glances at her, then flushes.

"Captain Rogers," he chokes, eyes lighting at the sight of her, "I - um, welcome to the helicarrier."

He's smiling at her, but he's a little subdued. Stevie's confused, until she remembers Loki's assault; one of the Agents controlled had been Clint Barton.

Coulson was his handler. 

She'll blame the circles under Coulson's eyes for saying: "Are you okay?"

Coulson looks at her in shock, eyes round at the great Captain America asking if he's okay. Stevie really shouldn't care about people, because she can't keep things, she's doesn't get to, but there's nothing wrong with being polite.

Well, to fanboy Coulson. Not to Fury and Stark.

"I'm - " Coulson catches himself, shaking his head. "I'm fine, thank you."

Stevie eyes him for a moment longer, wrinkling her nose. She wants to hate Coulson, on principle, but it's hard when she imagines a tiny Coulson, thumbing through comics in his bedroom, alone.

She pauses, biting her lip. "We'll find him," she says quietly, then leaves before he can reply. She hears the noise of shock he makes, but she doesn't turn around.

She's not sure if it's deliberate or not, but Bruce and her stay close, watching as intelligent people do complicated things on big screens. After spouting a lot of technical jargon, Bruce seems lost again - or maybe it justs unease.

He keeps glancing at the exits - i.e the window, because they're on a giant PLANE, - and at the guards with their tiny headsets and handguns. 

He sidles up to her, and Stevie feels a little twist in her gut, because knowingly or not, he's choosing her as the safer option here. It reminds her too much of trenches and late night drinks and brown eyes, so she keeps her expression icy.

"Men with guns," she says finally, and it's as much a question as it is a statement. 

Bruce gives her a shrewd look, narrowing his brown eyes. He purses his lips for a second, then states: "Planes," in the exact same tone.

They share a grim look, stance identical, arms crossed, expressions stony. 

Fury glances over, and he looks livid. He's probably expecting her to mutiny. Well, she is a Captain. 

She's trailing her hand over a particularly impressive computer, when suddenly all the screens change image.

There's a regal looking building, and outside it, a well dressed, sneering brunette. Loki. The writing in the corner reads: Stuttgart, Germany. He's not even trying to hide.

"Well," Stevie drawls, breaking the silence, "I guess I'm up."

 

 

Her costume is different. She's told Stark worked on it, and she doesn't bother ignoring that, because currently, anger is good. It works as well as apprehension. 

It's reinforced, strong enough to take - well, to take an alien army, she presumes. It's a richer blue as well, and the material flexes easily.

Hilariously, Tony has added some kind of headgear.

A mocking imitation of her tiara, she guesses. It's a blue mask, one that covers her eyes, fitting neatly under her hair.

Stevie remembers the make shift 40's room, and wonders if this is less about safety, and more about digression. How much is the public allowed to know about Captain America, anyway? 

She pulls it on, the suit a second skin, lithe, supple, practically blending into her. She hesitates, then plaits her hair deftly, slipping on the snug mask. 

She's grateful to notice there isn't too much change; she's still Stephanie Rogers, just colder, more closed up, untouchable. The mask only covers half her face, really just her eyes, but she wonders what that represents, the fact she's hiding - or the fact she's choosing to not be known.

It's the shield that really gets to her.

The agent babbles on about adjustments and alterations, but Stevie ignores them completely, eyes fixed on the familiar disk.

It's as much a part of her as her dog tags, and she runs a hand over it, smooths the sleek metal, rubs her finger tips over the vibrant, new paint job.

The weight is welcoming, the reassuring pressure of vibranium, the weapon that's saved her life more than once. The flimsy, play shield that evolved into a sleek, smooth creation.

When Natasha comes to get her, telling her the Quinjet is prepped, Stevie's ready.


	13. Because We're Judging My Fashion Choices

Seeing as she deliberately crashed one into the artic wastelands, Stevie's not too fond of planes. Sitting in the back of the Quinjet, Stevie doesn't react outwardly at all, but she can feel herself getting wound tighter.

Flying over Germany is strange, but Stuttgart is a large city with opera halls, beautifully carved houses.

It's outside one of the beautifully carved concert halls when Stevie notices the people. They're all clumped together, cornered off into a square, when Stevie realises they're kneeling.

"Natasha," she says tightly, "Put me down, now."

Natasha swerves close enough to drop her off, Stevie's feet hitting the pavement, as the Quinjet is pulled up again. Stevie barely has time to take it all in, when there's a blast of light, and she's reacting instantly.

She pushes infront of the elderly man, shield held out. The vibration hits, and she crouches, the civilian shoved behind her. There's a pause, then she pushes herself up.

Stephanie Rogers meets the God Of Mischief with a piercing blue gaze.

Loki has dark brown hair that hits his shoulders, encased in some kind of horned helmet. He has a stick - sceptre? - in his hand, glowing blue - teseract blue. He's blinking at her, before his mouth curves into a smirk, eyes turning dark.

The air around him seems to shiver, the very atmosphere rejecting him. Stevie doesn't blink, but it's as the image in front of her is shifting, and sometimes she sees death and destruction and fire. Then the image snaps back, and it's gone in a breath.

Stevie's first thought is: Damn, he's desperate.

Stevie's second thought is: Swell, another idiot with ammunition.

This man doesn't look born evil - because, trust her, she's seen men like that, - he looks twisted, warped with grief and anger, meaning he's taken the evil path.

It's no excuse, in fact, it makes him more dangerous. He's a God, mortals deaths are just games to him. He'll play with humans like they're toys, because they are that to him, easily broken and easily replaced. It makes her feel sick.

"You know," Stevie drawls, voice hard as diamonds, "I've never been good with obeying rules. Not by society -" she shrugs, and flashes her teeth, "And not by Gods either."

Loki draws himself up to his full height, fingers tightening around his sceptre.

"Yes," he sneers, tone dripping condescension, "The little girl dressed up as the soldier."

"Yeah, because we're judging my fashion choices, goat head," Stevie snorts, and punches him.

It's a good punch, slamming into Loki's cheek, sending him reeling. She's not expecting him to react so quickly, and he slams into her, barely missing her with his sceptre.

She ducks, then brings the shield up, slamming it into his chest. He grabs her arms, and damn, Gods are strong, because he throws her full bodily across the court.

People are screaming, some are running, and Stevie bites back a groan, as she thuds in the pavement, the shock reverberating through her body. Her heart's thumping erratically, mind a blur, her body not as adjusted as she'd like. It's like those first days after the serum, when she wasn't used to her limbs yet.

She scrambles for her shield, but Loki grabs her arm, twisting it. He uses the sceptre to take her feet out beneath her, bringing the hard shaft down on her back. Stevie's panting as Loki uses the sceptre to keep her bowed at his feet.

To her left, she can see her shield, the red, white and blue lying on its side. Someone is screaming, she can hear the shrill cry as Loki bends down.

"You'll kneel before me," he hisses into her ear, right into the shell, breath hot.

Stevie snaps.

She jolts upwards, knocking the sceptre off. She's on her feet, and she barrels into Loki, hitting him hard in the stomach. He stumbles, using the sceptre as a block, only for her to weave and kick his underbelly.

It's adrenalin now, adrenalin and anger and pure, liquid rage, and as he lunges for her, she flips backwards, doing a perfect twist in the air. She lands next to her shield, and throws it.

It's a centuries old move, the glistening disc an extension of her arm, the trajectory perfect. The speed and precision knock Loki off his feet, the sceptre clattering away.

Stevie grabs it, then sprints to Loki, still splayed out on the ground. She kneels over him, one knee jabbed into his ribs, her hand tangling in his hair and slamming it into the concrete. With her other hand, the sharp point of the sceptre digs into Loki's throat.

Loki looks terrified, eyes wide with real shock, the beast in Stevie roaring he underestimated her. He looks up at her, as she presses the point harder against his white throat.

"I don't," she hisses, and he cringes as she yanks his head back painfully, "kneel."

It's as though time has slowed, and all there is is Loki's breathing, and Stevie kneeling over him, blood pumping. There's the old sense of not pride, maybe achievement? That hormone high that's like an addiction; the idea she's done something right, she's used her body for good.

There's the sound of engines, then Natasha's voice, crackled, but still clear through the microphone: "Loki, stand down. If you try to fight us, we will apprehend you."

Stevie sees the guns pointed at Loki, and eases off him. She gathers her shield while keeping the sceptre pointed at his throat. She doesn't give an extra kick or anything as she gets up, even though she's more than capable of breaking ribs - Asgardian or not.

She may feel accomplished when she's apprehended the bad guys, but she takes no pleasure in sinking to their level.

_"SHOOT TO THRILL! WAY TO KILL! TOO MANY WOMEN AND TOO MANY PILLS!"_

Stevie doesn't bother turning around, knowing faultlessly which red and gold tin can will be behind her. She hears Tony land, and bites her lip as he lets out a muffled noise of shock, his big entrance ruined.

That makes Nick Fury _and_ Tony Stark, my my, she is stealing the lime light today.

She turns to him, because she has to. She knows she cuts an impressive figure, shield in one hand, sceptre in another. Her plait is still perfectly in place, her blue eyes standing out even more with the mask.

Admittedly, the Iron Man suit is impressive. It glints red and gold, all the parts fitting seamlessly together, like a puzzle piece slotted into place. Tony's face plate is up, and he looks the same.

His eyes are still dark brown and he still has his stupid goatee. He gazes back at her, impassive, and Stevie raises one eyebrow.

"Captain."

"Stark."

"Well," Loki says, from where he's collapsed on the floor. "Isn't this going to be fun."


	14. What doesn't kill you

To say it's awkward when they get back on the helicarrier, is like saying Tony has a minor heart problem. Loki comes quietly, dark eyes shinning with something that makes the hair on the back of Stevie's arms stand up. 

She and Tony position themselves near the front of the jet. They haven't spoken, both of them standing stock still, muscles locked, air heavy with unsaid feelings.

Frankly, Stevie's surprised Tony lasts five minutes, before he cracks his first jibe.

"So," he drawls, raising one eyebrow, "You looked pretty good out there for a Capsicle." He leans in, teeth flashing. "What's your thing? Pilates?" 

He's obviously expects her to be lost at the new fangled comment, so Stevie enjoys the look of shock on his face, when she returns cooly "Tai Chi, actually." 

(Thank God for Stiles, and his hatred for "sports that involve raising your heart beat, when you could be striking ridiculous, animal inspired poses.")

Tony blinks a little, then strikes back. "Well, I'd compliment you on your form, but that'd be a red light, wouldn't it, Captain?" 

He says her rank like it's a curse, and Stevie grits her teeth. 

"Yellow light," she snarks, "Grievous bodily harm is a red though."

Tony glares at her. "Like I couldn't kick your star spangled ass, Rogers."

Both their heads snap around when Loki lets out a little snort. He's lounging against the wall, arrogant and serene, despite the bonds and ties. Stevie narrows her eyes, ignores the prickles under her skin.

"You wouldn't win a joust with the valiant Captain, Stark," Loki drawls, tone silky smooth and deadly, "Your grievances with your Father shadow all your actions."

Stevie is about to tell him exactly where to shove his grievances, because she didn't ask for a goat headed, Asgardian cheerleader, but Tony snaps back before she can even open her mouth. 

"Yeah, we're criticising my family problems," Tony retorts, tone deliberately bored, "When you ran away from your Daddy, because big brother had better, blonder, bouncier locks than you." 

Stevie is pretty sure that is a gross oversimplification, but she gets cut off when Natasha says from the cockpit, "Yeah, speaking of..."

Stevie totally called this. 

She's aware the weathers picked up, stormy clouds suddenly slipping into slamming rain, the brisk wind transformed into rumbling thunder.

Stevie watches as a flash of lightning cracks outside, casting an eerie glow over the helicarrier. The light catches Loki's face, making him look etheral, untouchable, every inch the mythical being.

"You're scared of a little lightning?" she asks, tone perfectly even. Loki glances up, smirk tugging his lips. 

"I'm not overly fond of what follows," he replies, and Stevie has one, tiny moment of dread, when the door of the helicarrier is ripped open. 

There's flashes of lightning and the rain is absolutely thudding down. Stevie sees the silhouette of a man - but this guy is clearly Asgardian.

She gets a blur of crimson clock, golden hair, rippling muscles, an actual hammer, when the guy grabs Loki and then jumps out of the plane.

Because Stevie is surrounded by idiots, Stark promptly does the same thing.

Stevie rolls her eyes - she doesn't know why, no ones there to see it, because they've, oh yeah, jumped out a damn plane - and grabs one of the parachute kits.

"You might want to sit this one out, Cap," Natasha calls, as Stevie fiddles with all straps and buckles, "These guys come from legend. They're practically Gods."

And then Stevie is hit with this huge wave of memories, tugging her down, burning her lungs, lashing against her skin. Because, not so long ago, she was jumping out of a plane, with a Stark and a beautiful woman, ready to take on the unknown enemy. 

She stands still for a moment, and she's not sure whether to laugh or cry, because life really comes full fucking circle, doesn't it? 

She shakes herself, adjusting that stupid mask, and tugging her harness. She turns to Natasha, as she positions herself at the edge, the wind screaming in her ears, a relentless, howling tempo.

"Ma'am," she says, and her voice is rough, though from tears or laughter she can't tell, "In my experience, all men think they're Gods."

 

 

It's not hard to find Stark and the God - Thor, presumably, considering the giant ass hammer. There's a distinct sound of crashing, the metallic whine of Stark's suit, a loud smack of trees slamming to ground.

She's landed on the edge of a jutted rock, and as she moves forward she sees Thor and Iron Man locked in combat. She winces as the amour is thrown into a tree, Thor's strength apparently unsurplus. Iron Man gives as good as he gets though, a blinding blue light slamming into Thor, knocking him backwards.

Stevie's seen enough and she shouts out: "Hey!"

The two men look up, startled, Thor's fist an inch from Tony's face, Tony's repulsors angled against the Norse God's side. 

She jumps from the rock, barely noticing the impact rolling through her feet, muscles rolling and flexing as the serum does its work. She knows she looks like a warrior Queen, blazing blue, mask covering her face, shield gleaming.

Thor's eyes widen, and he really is God like, huge, huge shoulders, his hammer shining in competition with her own weapon, blue eyes piercing and deep, as if he's seen worlds she couldn't dream of. 

"That's enough," she orders, tone steely, a direct command, "I don't know what your business is here, but I'm certain it's not a pathetic pissing contest in a national park." 

Her words crack like a whip, and Thor blinks. He's frowning, face contorted in anger and confusion. Stevie wants to want to punch him, but she can't, because she's can relate to the bewildered expression on his face. 

"I have come to return the teseract to Asgard," Thor says, his voice low, deep, and Stevie can practically feel the power swirling off him. "I do not wish for conflict with your people."

They're standing in an awkward triangle, Thor close to Tony, with Stevie a little way away from them. He's glaring at Thor, muttering death threats under his breath while he flexes his gauntlets. 

Stevie looks at Thor, really looks at him, sees the anger and the fear and the resentment and the guilt swirling in his eyes, and she thinks about how his brother has killed the people he's supposed to protect, that his race is on his line, how a guy that's so powerful looks so...so fragile. 

But then Stevie realises it's only her that can see it, because Tony definitely can't, and SHIELD can't, and then she realises that she sees it because she's felt the exact same since -

-since Bucky. 

But Tony, damn Stark, obviously doesn't, because he chooses that moment to say: "Then prove it, Blondie. Put down the hammer."

Even Stevie, who's been on this Earth for two weeks, knows that is a stupid, stupid, stupid suggestion.

The tense atmosphere comes rushing back, and Thor snaps. He roars, swinging round and bringing his hammer up. He's going to hit Tony, and Tony hasn't got time to move and Thor won't hold back -

Stevie throws herself between them, shield coming up. There's an almighty boom when the hammer hits the disc, one that goes through her bones, ear drums ringing. As she'd skidded, she'd kicked Tony back, one boot slamming into the chest plate, knocking him backwards.

She stays crouched, ringing still in her head. The forest floor trembles, tiny vibrations spreading through it, like ripples in the ocean. The smell of leaves and pines. Stevie feels as though she's been pulled apart, split by sound itself, then merged back together, piece by piece. 

She lifts her chin, and stands. Her legs don't wobble, and she breathes out. 

She turns to Tony, who's sprawled on the floor, armour pressed against the mossy floor, crimson and gold against muted greens and browns. His pupils are huge, and he's looking at her like his eyes are lying.

Stevie twists to see Thor, blue eyes just as large, staring at her as if she's a ghost.

His hammer is beside him, and he reaches out, curls a hand around the end, tugs it close. He's still half crouched in the dirt, huge hands stained green where he'd scrambled for purchase, when immovable force met unstoppable object.

Wordlessly, Stevie holds out a hand.


	15. Kiss With A Fist

Everyone is staring at Stevie and it is freaking her out.

Seriously, Coulson is staring, Thor is staring, Tony is staring (maliciously), she's pretty sure even Loki is giving her the hairy eyeball. 

It's offputting, okay? And Stark can drop it right now, she doesn't know why she saved his sorry ass, okay? Good? Fine.

She drops into a seat at the large, conference table, drumming her fingers over the wood as she watches the guards escort Loki to his temporary allocation. He's smirking still, and Stevie's eyes follow the curve of his back, until he isn't visible anymore.

To her surprise, Natasha takes a seat next to her. Stevie blinks and glances at her; her face is like stone, green eyes giving nothing away. She's drawn into herself, arms crossed. She looks even more petite, but it's not a disadvantage. If anything she looks more lethal. 

Barton had worked with Natasha, she's sure of it, and Stevie bites her lip as she's sees the expression on Natasha's face. 

"So, that was some storm," Stevie says casually, and Natasha turns to eye her suspiciously. Jade green eyes narrow, but Stevie just shrugs and looks back. 

Natasha wrinkles her nose, and nods. "I've flown in worse," she replies steadily, red hair glinting in the helicarrier's lights. 

Stevie thinks about this for a second, then says conspiratorially: "Me too." 

Natasha cracks a smile, then immediately stops, as if she's not supposed to show emotion. Which she's probably not, Russian super spy and all, but Stevie still feels proud of herself for cheering Natasha up. 

(No, she doesn't. She doesn't care at all. She doesn't like the Avengers, she doesn't like SHIELD, she doesn't care about anyone because they are only going to hurt her. She doesn't need people to fix her or save her or complete her. Stephanie. Rogers. Is. Fine. Alone.) 

(Shut up.) 

She's almost relieved when Loki goes off on his homicidal rant, because at least she can breathe again. Stark babbles on in scientific lingo, that only Bruce seems to understand. 

"I don't know about magic," she says after Tony's speel. "But that stick acted a lot like a Hydra weapon."

Fury scowls, hands on his hips. "I don't care what it is, I want to know how Loki managed to control one of my best agents."

He must be talking about Barton, because Natasha stiffens imperceptibly. Tony notices, because he stands up a little taller. He's in a smart, blue suit, hair artfully mussed, oozing arrogance. He glances at Stevie, and smirks statistically. 

"Oh yeah, we can't have Mr and Mrs Smith without Brad," he drawls. 

He rocks back on his feet and and flashes Stevie a mock smile at Stevie. "Wouldn't expect you to get that reference, Cap." 

"I preferred Angelina, actually," Stevie comments nonchalantly, and basks in the glow of Tony's shock. 

Natasha sits up a little straighter, grinning in a sharp kind of way. "I agree," she nods, "I felt I could relate more." 

Stevie bites her lip as Tony's eyes darken in anger. She hums in agreement, keeping her tone deliberately casual. "I know, especially the whole blind with rage, hits him with a car part." 

Bruce, who had been watching the exchange tentatively, murmurs: "I can relate to that." 

Tony lets out an incredulous cry of "Banner! I actually liked you!", while Stevie and Natasha flash him beatific smiles for backing them up. 

Thor has been watching the exchange, head looking back and forth like a tennis match, face crinkled in bemusement. At this, he lets out a booming laugh, causing everyone to jump and look at him. 

"You have bested the Man of Iron in some way," Thor booms, looking at Stevie, blue eyes crinkled at the corners and momentarily amused. 

He steps closer to her, eyes sparkling - though not with arrogance like Stark, more a natural jolity of someone who doesn't have to ask to get what he wants. 

"I don't think we've been formally introduced," Thor rumbles, and kisses her hand.

Honestly, he kneels slightly and takes her left hand in one big, callussed hand. He brushes his lips against it, warm and soft.

"What the ever loving fuck, can someone stop the motherfucking Norse God liplocking with the motherfucking National treasure?" 

That'll be Fury, then. 

Stevie smiles slightly as Thor rises from the ground, beaming at her, gaze appraising. Thor is attractive, she'd have to be blind not to notice it, but - 

\- he's not Bucky. 

Her throat is tight as she rolls her eyes at Thor. 

"You are a very beautiful lady," Thor says, dimples showing as he gazes at her. 

"Hmm," Stevie hums, head titled to one side, "I'm a lady -" she flashes a grin, " -but also a warrior." 

Quick as a flash, she punches Thor in face. 

Like, really punches him, hard enough that he stumbles back, head snapping to the side, putting all her power into it. 

Natasha looks vaguely impressed. Bruce looks like he's going to cry. Fury and Coulson look as though they're going to wet themselves.

There's a beat of silence as Thor straightens up, one huge hand coming to touch his cheek. He stares at Stevie, muscles wound tight, blue eyes piercing. 

He throws back his head and laughs. 

He chortles madly, whole body shaking. He wipes his eyes, slapping Stevie's back with a broad palm. Stevie stops her wince - barely.

"You are indeed a fine warrior, fallen hero," he beams, perfectly white teeth, "You remind me greatly of Lady Sif." 

"Er, no," Tony spits, face contorted into scowls, "It's not bad enough she gets the Russian, who makes Mafia look like Scooby Doo. She is not getting the freaking God of Thunder." 

He grabs Bruce's arm, causing Bruce to flinch. "I call the Hulk, so there."

He pouts petulantly, looking like a little boy who's brother gets to stay up later than him. 

"You can't call dibs on people, Stark," Stevie says, rolling her eyes.

Tony glares at her. "Watch me, icy."

Bruce shuffles nervously. "Shouldn't we go work on tracking the teseract?"

Natasha tilts her head to one side. "When Clint's here, I'm going to tell him you punched a God."

Thor tugs her arm, looking like a ruly, blond puppy. "Captain, let us compare our majestic tales of battle." 

Coulson smiles. "So, when you were in the forest -"

How is this her life?


	16. With Our Backs To The Wall

Thor follows her everywhere. It's ridiculous, like he's a giant - no, he's not a puppy, Rogers. He's a God. A Norse God with big blue eyes, and pouty lips.

The thing is, Stevie's still creeped out by this entire situation.

Loki has gotten right under her skin, the helicarrier makes her chest ache, and she can't show any of this because Fury is ready to pounce at the smell of weakness.

Like a shark. A big, one eyed shark.

"Lady Rogers," Thor calls, and he's actually waving his hand.

Instead of embarrassment, the SHIELD agents actually seem vaguely terrified with this new alliance. Sighing, Stevie nods him over.

They begin to walk through the ship. Large glass windows, screens flashing in an elobarate dance, agents marching down halls in skin tight suits, practically breathing efficency.

"You are the lost warrior?" Thor asks suddenly, as they are passing another lab. Stevie startles, glancing at him.

"You could say that," she replies, and her chest feels hollow, because she is lost, in so many ways.

Thor nods gravely. "You are well known among your people. They tell great tales of you."

She's surprised he knows that, then remembers reading Thor was made guardian of Earth. Loki attacking it - it's a sick game of penance. Thor must have learnt more about his ward. About her.

Stevie gazes at him, Thor returning it steadily, blue eyes deep.

"People always tells stories," she says finally, tone deceptively light.

Thor nods his head, tipping to the side. He looks like a puppy - again. He looks at her, then looks away.

"I wished - " he stops, voice gravelly. "I wished to take blame for my brother's action. They are unforgivable, and born out of his own hatred for me."

Stevie stops in the hallway to turn to him. His blue eyes reflect his hurt and guilt, the crushing weight, fresh wounds, so harsh Stevie winces.

"I do not look for confidence," Thor continues, "But I am not friendly with Stark, and this...SHIELD do not tempt my affections either. So, I look to you, and offer my shame as reward. I will right this."

Stevie doesn't know why Thor is telling her this, why he trusts her, why he apologizes to her. He's a God, he hates Stark and SHIELD, why is he -

-because he knows she's just as broken.

She carries the same guilt on him, the one that bleeds into your bones, dark ink staining the blood until it's black.

Unlike her, Thor has lived a long time, and see a lot of things, and had to grow up with his actions bearing devastating consequences.

Unlike Stevie, Thor lets people in, but only the right people. Not the people who need him, but the ones he needs.

Cautiously, she reaches out and curls a hand around a large forearm. She squeezes it once, then releases, stepping back. They exchange a look, then Thor takes his leave, bowing as his does.

 

 

“- Tony, she deserves to know -”

“C’mon, Captain Spangly Pants doesn’t need-”

“Doesn’t need what?”

Bruce and Tony both look up when she speaks. She’d been making her way down to the lab after her little heart to heart with Thor.

Heart to heart with Thor. Her life is so weird.

Anyway. Bruce and Tony are surrounded by screens. Bruce’s glasses have fallen down his nose, and he’s tugging at the bottom of his purple shirt. He glances between her and Tony, nose wrinkling.

Tony is leaning against one of the monitors, hip pushed out. His gaze is belligerent, his stance too deliberate to be casual. His lips curve up in a familiar smirk.

“Nothing to worry your pretty, blond head about, Cap,” he beams, white teeth flashing.

Stevie narrows her eyes. “I’m the only Captain on board. The spangly pants is pretty ambiguous, though. Your suit isn’t exactly conspicuous.”

Tony glares at her, then changes tatics and slings an arm around Bruce. Bruce shuffles uncomfortably.

That’s when Stevie notices Bruce is almost white, his breathing coming out in shallow pants. It’s something to do with his screen, he keeps glancing at it.

“Bruce,” she asks, stepping forward. “Are you okay?”

Bruce glances up at her. He clears his throat.

“They’re making weapons,” he says, and his voice is barely a whisper, “SHIELD are making weapons with the teseract.”

“What?” Stevie asks, and it’s like a growl, her voice dangerous.

She strides over to the screen. She doesn’t understand the writing, but she knows the structure of something that can kill hundreds of people.

It’s the same structure.

She takes a deep breath, then waves a hand, the weapon dissolving into nothing. She’s angry, but it’s not even that. She expected this, been waiting for something to happen every since that lie, been waiting - waiting for a fight.

“Call Fury.”

“Oh, Cap, you’re almost steaming -”

“Do it.”


	17. Empire Falls In Just One Day

Fury’s pissed when he walks into the lab.

His black coat is billowing behind him, and as his gaze travels over their stiff postures, his face tightens, little creases forming.

“Shouldn’t you be working on the cube?” he snaps. Natasha stands beside him, her face impassive, but she’s vibrating slightly. She’s got news, but this isn’t the time to ask. 

“Oh, we’ve finished our little science project,” Tony snarks, all brimming arrogance and flashy exterior, “We’re onto a much, much more interesting situation now.” 

“Stark, what the hell -”

“I’d like to know why,” Bruce cuts in, and the entire room goes silent. She sees Bruce flinch at that, his face white and tense. “SHIELD are using the teseract to make weapons of mass destruction.”

Fury tenses, it’s a small imperceptible movement, but Stevie was looking for it, and it’s then that she knows it’s true. She’s livid, fist clenched. 

“Don’t try to lie,” Stevie snaps, before he can open his mouth, “You’ve done enough of that.”

Fury recoils, face grim. “There’s no need to further your personal vendetta, Rogers. SHIELD -”

Bruce lets out a bark of a laugh, the sound painful. “SHIELD what? Thought a nuclear war with an alien species would sort everything out?”

“Do you need to remove yourself from the situation, Dr Banner?” Natasha asks, her voice calm and cool in the rising tension in the room. 

“Why? You’ve already rented my room!” Bruce snaps, and Stevie notices Thor for the first time, sees him wince, face contorted in pain as he thinks of Loki.

Natasha opens her mouth, but Tony cuts her off. He pushes off the counter, predatory grace, assured of his own intelligence.

“You going to blame it all on Point Break then, Nick?” 

“Last year we had an alien visitor, with a grudge that took out a whole town, we have to be prepared -” 

Stevie snaps, glancing at Thor, who looks wounded. “Don’t blame him! You were the ones who started this -”

“Yes,” Thor rumbles, huge hands clenched, “It was your meddling with the teseract that drew Loki to it. “

“Exactly,” Stevie nods, exchanging a nod a with Thor, “You had no idea what the teseract could do! Who’s stupid idea was it anyway, to fish it out the ocean -” 

“- probably the same one who was dumb enough to fish you out.”

There’s silence.

Stevie turns slowly. Stark is standing there, blinking slightly. It obviously just slipped out, but he doesn’t look repentant. He cocks his head at her, arms crossed, eyes issuing a challenge.

“What did you just say?” she asks, the words bitten out.

Tony stretches like cat. He tilts his head as if he’s considering. “Well, it was my father, so I guess the point stands.”

“You know, Stark,” Stevie replies, tone as harsh as steel, “I think I actually agree with Loki. He’s right, everything you do, is shadowed by your father. Like having a grudge against me. For. No. Reason.”

“My actions are shadowed?” Tony spits, eyes dark, muscles tense, “What about you? You practically bleed regret. The 40’s aren’t coming back, Captain.”

They’re moving closer without her even realising it, blue eyes flashing into brown, like a ship that’s spiralling closer and closer and closer to the rocks.

“You want to take about the past?” Stevie demands, heart thumping in her chest. She’s never felt so angry, so livid, as though every thought, every fear, every screams being pulled out of her. 

“How about the fact you care about peace _now_ , doesn’t atone for all your previous actions?”

She pauses. “Or your father's."

Tony steps even closer. He appears calm, but she can see his fists clenched, hard enough that the knuckles are white.

“You can’t criticise my life choices, Rogers. You ran off to war -” and he makes it sounds dirty, cheap, worthless - “You’re nothing but a little girl playing dress up.”

That hurts, slams into her gut, because it’s every insecurity she’s ever had. That she wasn’t good enough, that’ll she never be good enough. Every since the first day that pavement scraped her hands, gravel rubbing in the cuts.

It’s that, that forces her ugly reply, sharp barbs destined to hurt.

“At least I fought for something,” she spits, “You only fight for yourself. I’ve seen the tapes. You only care about yourself!”

It hits a nerve, and she can see it, sees Tony recoil. He strikes back, instantly, and it’s animal rage now, uncontrolled attacks.

“What about you, Rogers?” he breathes, voice pure poison, “You’re nothing but a laboratory experiment.” 

He steps closer. They’re almost touching, face to face now. "You want to prove everything special about you didn't come out a bottle? Hit me." 

It's as though time freezes. The air stills, and Stevie stops, and looks around, a panasonic sweep of the room.

Bruce is almost white, and he's edging closer to something on the desk. Thor looks hurt, big blue eyes wide as if he's unsure what's happening. It's even getting to Natasha, little fissures. 

Stark is tensed beside her, wearing his mask like a declaration of war, eyes narrowed. Stevie wonders how she couldn't see how broken this man is. 

She looks at herself, then.

Thinks of the ugly words that have come out, words meant to slice the skin. Her actions, every one a cry for help, even if no one can see it.

But she can see it. She looks back on the last few weeks, and she feels sick. 

Stevie takes a shaky breath, and says "No."

There's a surprised inhale from Stark. "What -"

"I want to," Stevie says calmly, "But I'm not going to."

She gestures to each of them. "I'm sure this, could on forever. I'm sure you've thought of thousands of witty barbs, lots of condescending nicknames. Maybe programmed your robots to play the national anthem when I walk into a room."

She straightens her shoulders. "But I'm not playing that game." 

"Because it won't make anything better," she says, and she feels odd, as if everything's clearer, like tasting air when you surface.

"It won't bring your father back. It won't make him love you anymore, or act anymore decently. It won't stop me knowing him, and you can't blame me for that, you can use that as a weapon against me, because it's not my fault."

"And you know what? You're right. It isn't the 40's, it'll never be the 40's again, and I have to deal with that. I have to live with the fact, everyone I know is dead." 

Her voice cracks. "He's dead."

There's silence in the helicarrier. Stevie slowly unclenches her fists, and looks up at Stark. He's motionless, and if they had been anyone else, she's sure he'd be cutting them off right now. But he doesn't, just gazes at her with scared eyes.

"This isn't about us," Stevie says finally, voice unwavering, "This is about them. This is about the people who will _die_ if we don't save them."

She gestures to the others. "We are not enemies. In case you haven't noticed, these people are the only people who understands what it's like to go through hell, and come out the other side."

She pushes her braid over her shoulders, straightens her uniform. When she speaks her voice is gentle, raw power embeded in soft tones.

"I was once someone men were proud to call Captain. I want to be that person again."

Silence rings though the cabin. Stevie swallows, but doesn't break Tony's gaze. After a long moment, he opens his mouth to speak and -

\- and the room explodes.


	18. All Your Little Things

Stevie reacts instinctively - she's been in explosions before, and her body knows exactly what to do.

She flies forward, smacking into Tony. The ground ripples below her, and she braces herself over Tony's vulnerable, unprotected form.

When the vibrations stop, Tony is looking up at her with shocked, brown eyes. She pushes herself up, legs only slightly shaky. She grabs Tony's hand, pulling him up.

It's chaos, agents screaming and running. There's claxons and alarms shrieking, along with indistinguishable orders. The debris is so thick Stevie can't see Natasha, or Thor, and they were standing close to her.

She catches sight of a screen, and turns to Tony. "We have to get to the engines," she shouts, grabbing his arm, "Come on!"

Tony nods, face pale. They run down the corridor, dodging agents and fallen framework, feet pounding the floors.

She doesn't let herself think of planes, and she definitely doesn't let herself think of crashing.

 

 

They save the engine. It's close and, for a brief moment, Stevie's terrified that Stark's been shredded. He's not, and she pulls the right lever and the ship is stabilized.

And then the words come through, "Agent Coulson is down."

She's expecting the breakdown. She steels herself, dragging up all the boundaries, preparing herself for the self hatred that she's lost yet another innocent life.

It doesn't come.

It's not that she doesn't grieve - even though she didn't really know Coulson, there's still that resounding beat of hurt.

But right now, all she can think about is the others. About Barton, who was apprehended and is struggling in the medbay at this moment, fighting the poison in his system.

About Bruce, who's God knows where - the same for Thor, and Natasha who Stevie isn't even sure what happened to.

There are people who need her, people who's needs are greater. Stevie's had her grievance period, now it's time to  _move on._

What she said to Stark was right, it's not about her. It's about New York, and the people in it. She has a purpose now. 

It's not that she's less messed up than these people, it's that she can  _deal with it better._ She's always had to, ever since that first day in the orphanage, 60 years ago.

Sometime, other people just have to come first.

She slowly makes her way down the corridor, eyes drifting over the destruction where there had once been cool efficiency. An agent had just said over the comms they've got a few hours - Barton's lucid enough to reveal that.

Tony's leaning over the balcony, brown eyes focused on something she can't see. He looks up when she approaches, and his lips curve up into a ragged smile.

"Did he have any family?" Stevie asks softly, leaning against the opposite wall. Tony sighs, and turns, facing her.

"There was - a cellist, I think."

Tony's voice is devoid of all usual snark and sarcasm. He just sounds tired, tired and old.

Stevie can relate.

"I wasn't very nice to him," she says, frowning slightly, "At least, for all that I talked to him."

Tony snorts, rubbing a hand over his face. "You're 60 years into the future," he replies ruefully, "I think you're allowed a little not nice."

Stevie nods. "I guess."

Tony looks at her, properly this time, eyes mixed with an emotion she can't read.

"Do you want to know why I hated you?" he says abruptly, "Besides the whole my-Dad-loved-you-more-you're-so-totally-amazing thing?"

It's not exactly a question that needs an answer, but Stark barrels on anyway.

"I've always had to be the best, to have the best. Whether it be money, or girls, or a giant flashy suit. I've also had something to prove - mostly to everyone, but always to myself."

He pauses, and begins to pace up and down, fists clenched. Stevie stays in her position, watching him.

"I thought," he continues loudly, "I thought when the Avengers came along, that this was it."

He stops, striking a pose. "Tony Stark," he says mockingly, "Leader of the Avengers."

He waves one hand dismissively. "I don't care about that consultant bullshit, I was ready to lead the Avengers. It would be my biggest coup, the greatest achievement, I thought that -"

He pauses, shoulders slumping. "I don't know what I thought. Just I would be proving myself, to the point where there were no doubts."

He sighs. "But I couldn't do it. I'm not a team player - I can, I can barely look after myself. But you - you can."

Stevie shuffles uncomfortably, not liking being put on a pedestal. "That's not true," she begins, "I'm not -"

"What was the first thing you thought to do after the helicarrier was invaded?" Tony demands.

Stevie answers automatically. "Check on you. Then visit Barton - I need to talk to him at the very least. I can't do much about Thor, but maybe Bruce -"

She stops when she sees Tony's wry smile, suddenly realising his point. "Oh."

"Yeah," Tony says, and this time the smile looks genuine, "Like I said, leader."

He cocks his head to one side. "I think that's another reason I was so pissed. Because Tony Stark is definitely a leader, but with you -" he shakes his head - " with you, I'd follow."

Stevie blinks, scrutinizing his face for any signs of a joke. When she can't see any, she smiles slightly.

"Okay," she says softly, "But - but I'm not perfect, okay? And that's not self deprecation, or melodrama it's just -"

She struggles, trying to put it into words. She doesn't want to be a hero, doesn't want people to think she's perfect. It's too much like the propaganda they used to spin.

At the end of the day, she's just a girl from Brooklyn.

"I have nightmares," she says finally, and is proud when her voice doesn't crack, "Every night, ever since I woke up."

Tony looks at her, dark eyes emphatic, understanding in a way only some people can.

"They feel real, right?" he says slowly, "And when you wake up - you can't forget them. They're always there."

"Exactly."

The moment hangs in the air, and Stevie feels something snap into place, though she couldn't say what.

"I'm going to see Barton," she says finally, and Tony nods, eyes intent.

"I'm going to make repairs to the suit," Tony nods, "I felt like I was in a hamster ball in that engine."

He lights up at Stevie's puzzled expression. "Finally! Something you don't get! We'll get you one as soon as we've - well, finished saving the world."

"I've already got a Stiles," Stevie says absent mindedly, then waves off Tony's raised eyebrow.

"Once you've done your repairs, could you locate Bruce?" Stevie asks, "I think he'll need a pep talk."

Tony grins. "Guess I could take you, you'll have to wrap your legs -"

Stevie looks at him.

"I'll just go finish my repairs, then..."

 

 

Natasha and Barton are talking quietly when Stevie stops in the door. Natasha has her hand on his knee, red head bent towards him. Stevie's never actually seen Barton, and she takes a moment to survey him.

He lithe and muscled, strong forearms used to pulling back a bow. He's tan, and his hair is a messy brown, almost blond.

His eyes are blue, and right now they're dark, troubled, bleak. There are dark bruises under his eyes, almost purple with guilt and fatigue.

Natasha looks up at that moment, and Clint starts, as if they are so finely attuned that when one moves, so does the other.

Barton freezes, eyes widening, then ducks his head, hiding his face. Natasha squeezes his knee.

"Stark is finishing repairs on the suit," Stevie says easily, leaning against the door frame, "I was wondering if I could talk to Barton?"

Natasha eyes her warily, before exchanging a look with Barton. He inclines his head slightly and Natasha squeezes his thigh again, then gets up to leave.

She pauses next to Stevie, face void of any emotion. She opens her mouth, then shakes her head.

"I'd threaten you in someway," Natasha smirks, "But I really don't think I need to. You're not exactly the kick-them-when-they're-down types, Cap."

"I'll work on it," Stevie promises, and Natasha smiles before leaving the room.

Barton's clenching his fists into the bedcloth when she walks in. She can see the effort it takes for him to remain emotionless, and he's not quite making it, small fissures showing.

"I don't blame you," Stevie says without any preamble.

Barton starts. "I don't - what?"

Stevie leans against the wall, arms crossed. "I know you blame yourself for what Loki made you do."

Barton rubs a hand over his face, an action so reminiscent of Stark's, it makes her heart ache.

"It wasn't your fault," Stevie repeats, "And I don't blame you. However, words don't mean anything. You'll still feel guilty. You'll still have nightmares."

She gives him a level look. "I'm not going to lie to you, to pander to you or pretend you'll talk to a therapist and get over it."

She shrugs. "All I can offer you is the truth. You're a good fighter, you're a good shot, I want you on my team and  _I don't blame you."_

Barton's jaw is hanging open. He blinks rapidly, then lets out a strangled laugh.

"I think," he says slowly, and his voice is hoarse, "I think that's the only thing anyone could have said right now, that wouldn't have made me shoot them in the face."

Stevie smiles. "Really?"

Barton nods. He scrubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, then runs them through his hair. He glances up, then back down in quick succession.

"I'm -" he coughs, "I wasn't sure if you'd -"

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. The words hang heavy in the air.

"You think I haven't been given my fair share of second chances?" Stevie asks softly.

Barton's gaze snaps up, and he stares for a second.

"Trust me," Stevie continues, "You don't even want to get me started on Stark's issues."

Barton snorts, and if his eyes are watery, well, neither of them say anything. 

"So, can you fly a jet?" Stevie asks, and Barton's lip curve up.

"I can for Captain America," he replies, and grabs his bow.

"Good," Stevie says firmly, "Go pick your plane. Meet on the bridge in an hour with Natasha."

They make their way out the door, and when Stevie turns left, Barton coughs.

Stevie turns to him. "Yes?"

Clint shuffles. "Did you really punch Thor?"

Stevie blinks. "Yes..."

"Could I have your autograph?"

Stevie raises an eyebrow. "Maybe after we've stopped an Asgardian taking over New York and destroying the world?"

Clint flushes. "Oh, er, yeah." He gives a little wave, then practically runs down the corridor.

Stevie shakes her head. She kinda likes Clint Barton.

 

 

"So, Cap. Just put your legs here."

They've managed to locate Bruce, and Stevie wants to go to talk to him. Loki's attacking in a few hours, they need him - and he needs the extra push.

Stark looks as if he's in heaven. He's suited up, as is she, complete with a huge smirk on his face.

"C'mon Rogers, you've got to hold on tight," Stark gloats, gesturing to the suit.

Stevie scowls. "Could you not enjoy this so much?"

"Captain, oh Captain," Tony drawls, "I'm going to have  _Captain America_  clinging to me, on her own terms -"

"Because I don't want to take a SHIELD plane," Stevie snaps, "I'd only trust Barton -"

"To do it anyway, I know, I know," Tony sighs, "Look, you have a pep talk to give and I've got a super soldier to cuddle -"

"We're not cuddling," Stevie groans, "You have to carry me, okay?"

Tony opens his mouth, but Stevie shoots him a look.

"If you say one more word," she grinds out, "I will rip out your spine,  _and beat you with it."_

Tony shuts up.

 

 

Stevie finds Bruce at an abandoned building, covered by rubble and half naked.

Tiny says something along the lines of "I'll park the car, dear", which Stevie glares at him for, and zooms off.

Bruce starts when she sits beside him. He's in jeans, but they're obviously borrowed, waist too tight.

He looks at her sideways. "Come to take me back, Captain?"

Stevie shakes her head. "Come to tell you a story."

Bruce blinks, then lets out a bitter laugh. "Well, that's a new one. Go ahead. Does it end with the monster realising his true potential, and saving the princess?"

"No," Stevie says shortly, "It ends with a young boy dead."

Bruce's eyes widen, and he shifts beside her.

"When I was in the army," Stevie begins, and it scares her how long ago that was, how she missed all those years, "There was this kid, Sam."

"I didn't know him, not really. He was what, 20? 21? Red hair, just like Natasha's."

She kicks a piece of rubble, watches as it bounces across the gravel. Bruce is quiet beside her.

"He used to blush whenever I walked by," Stevie continues, and suddenly she can see him, clear as day, as if she was there.

"But I never paid attention because - well, because."

She swallows, because that was when Bucky was alive. When the only person she wanted to make blush was Bucky. It hurts, going back, hurts like frostbite in her heart.

"Sam died," she says softly, and Bruce flinches. "He died. He simply wasn't there one day. I asked Philips and he - he told me he was shot down."

"I cried," she breathes, and her voice is shaky, "I cried in the bathroom."

Bruce is silent, eyes fixed on the floor.

"So what I don't  _get,"_ Stevie says, her voice suddenly loud, "Is how you can waste your life, when I know so many people who never got the chance to live one."

Bruce pulls back, face shocked. "I'm not wasting it - do you not know -"

Stevie shakes her head. "I'm not discounting what you've been through. I'm pretty certain your life has been  _hell,_ and I know you've had losses, but I think you're hiding."

Stevie's never seen Bruce so angry; his knuckles are white from his clenched fists. "I have to hide! Do you know the damage I could do, the Big Guy, I can't control it -"

"Because no one's ever tried!" Stevie argues, "Not really, not unless it's for money, or for war, or for manipulation. But you have a chance now!"

She gestures at herself. "You think half of us don't regret our actions? You think we all wanted to be like this? Stark - I know he puts up a front, but he was tortured in the desert before he became Iron Man!"

She shakes her head. "And what about Clint? You said it's out of control? His  _mind was taken over by a God._  If anyone's going to have a vague understanding, it's him."

Bruce is biting his lower lip, spreading his hands whilst looking down at them, as if imagining what they've done.

"I'm not letting you sit this one out," Stevie says firmly, "You have no idea how much I respect you. We need you, the Avengers need you. And you -"

She smiles. "You need us. You may not know it, but you do."

She pushes herself up, dusting off her knees. She touches Bruce's shoulder, and he doesn't flinch away.

"I'll see you later. I'll be the one in blue."

Bruce watches her go, she can feel his gaze on her back. Tony's waiting for her a few streets away, mechanic arms crossed.

"I've got a call from Romanov," he says, "We haven't got long - maybe an hour. Fury apparently wants to have a little chat when we get back - motivational speech or something."

"Cancel it," Stevie snaps, "I'm not listening to any propaganda."

Tony whistles. "You really don't like SHIELD, do you?"

"Do you?"

Tony shrugs. "They're not exactly growing on me. When this is over - well, we'll see."

He offers his arm. "Can I give you a lift?"

Stevie smirks. "Thought you'd never ask."


	19. The Promise

"Fury is looking for you," Natasha smirks, as Tony and Stevie enter the helicarrier, "Something about a meeting, and cards -"

"But I totally covered for you," Clint cuts in, practically bouncing on the soles of his feet.

"Thanks," Stevie grins, and Clint flushes pink. Natasha raises an eyebrow, and Clint scowls at her.

"Right," Stevie says, "Clint, have you got a jet ready?"

Clint nods, and beckons them down the corridor. Tony hangs back, and touches Stevie's elbow, the smallest gesture.

"I'll fly ahead," he says, face grim, "New York, right?"

"New York," Stevie replies, and they exchange a glance.

This isn't going to be pretty.

 

 

Turns out, "isn't going to be pretty", is the biggest bloody understatement of the year.

Stevie's never seen an alien. Turns out, she could've gone her all life without seeing one. They're - she can't describe them. Grey, scaley, strangely humanoid faces, huge teeth.

Weapons capable of taking out skyscrapers. Taking out the whole city. Don't even get her started on the giant hole in the sky that's spewing extra terrestrials.

It's a bit like when she met Loki. They don't belong here, they're just  _wrong._ She sees them crawling down streets, and flying past buildings, and her gut twists. 

She hits the ground running, and doesn't stop. The Chituari swarm them, relentless, unforgiving, merciless. Stevie hisses as one of the aliens bends her arm back. She kicks up, hitting it squarely in the ribs, then twists, flipping it over.

They're fighting in the street, Natasha ahead of her. The Chituari are everywhere, and Stevie can't breathe, can't think. There's just here and now, duck behind that taxi, throw the shield, call directions to Tony.

"Er, Cap?"

"What?" Stevie snaps, and throws her shield. It knocks the nearest alien to the floor, and she spins, punching another one in the jaw. It screams in it's terrible language, clicks and grunts and snaps, and Stevie stamps down, hard.

"Well," Tony begins, and Stevie wipes alien goo off her shirt, before launching a roundhouse kick at the next one, "You may want to look up."

Natasha lets out a scream, and Stevie turns. Natasha is pinned on a taxi, trying to strangle one with her thighs. Stevie sprints, flinging her shield. It catches the legs, and the alien crumples.

Natasha flashes her a look of gratitude, and then her eyes widen, looking at something in the distance.

Stevie really doesn't want to turn around.

It's a whale, an alien whale. It smashes into the buildings, ripping huge gashes in the side. People are screaming, and there's smoke everywhere. Stevie watches as it approaches, huge, unstoppable, insurmountable.

She moves in front of Natasha. 

Natasha lets her.

"This," Clint breathes, blood tricking from his forehead, "Is not good."

There's a sound of a motorbike engine, and Stevie whips around to see - Bruce. He looks tired, bags under his eyes, but his gaze is steady.

He pushes off the bike and walks towards them. In the distance, the beast roars.

"Well, this looks - horrible," he sighs, and Natasha stiffens slightly. Bruce freezes, and Stevie frowns. She'll have to look into it later.

Well. After she's escaped the giant alien whale.

"Anytime, Bruce," she grits out, "You want to get angry. Seriously, not like we're on a timer or anything."

Clint gives her an admiring look. "How do you think of witty one liners, when we're about to be eaten by an alien orca?"

"She's Captain America," Bruce says, and changes.

Stevie is way to old for this.

Bruce is big and green and - nope, that's all her brain can handle right now. Big and green. Very big. Very green.

She's dimly aware of Thor landing beside her, the ground tilting, but that's when Br - Hulk? - Hulk sinks his fist into the whale's nose.

Debris sprays everywhere, and for a minute that's all Stevie can see, rubble raining from the sky. She can smell blood and ash and fire. The Chituari are screaming, and Clint's gripping her hand, bow digging into her side.

The Hulk roars, and it goes straight through her, her entire body shaking. There's a hum of machinery, then Tony lands, eyebrows raising.

The shaking subsides, and Stevie glances at the others. They're all in a circle, weapons poised, expressions stony. One by one, they look at her, even Hulk, which is a little disturbing.

Stevie smiles.

"This is what we're going to do."

 

 

Being thrown through a window by an alien sucks.

Stevie can feel slithers of glass digging into her arms, and the ground feels like marble at her back. She's sure she's going to bruise, and she bites back a curse.

She pushes herself up, and begins to usher people out of the street. One of the boys in blue looks terrified, and Stevie tries to smile reassuringly.

It doesn't work, because at that moment she's shot by one of the aliens. She screams, can't help it, the blast ripping into her. She collapses, sides shaking in pain.

Her mask slips off her hair, and when she lifts her hand, it's stained in crimson.

"Evie?"

Stevie gets to her feet, hand still clutching her stomach. It feels wet, sticky and she fights a gag at the smell of blood.

"Oh. My _GOD_. It  _is_  you!"

Stevie brushes hair out her eyes and looks up to see - Stiles?

It really is Stiles, face sooty and jaw dropped. His face contorts in fury, and he shoves past the policeman.

"Oh my FUCKING God," he snarls, "You're Captain America! You're Captain America and you never told me!"

Stevie's incredulous, because they're in the middle of a freaking war, and Stiles is still advancing. There's a hiss at her shoulder, and she pivots, ready to strike.

Stiles picks up a brick and throws it at the alien.

The alien crumples. Stevie gapes. Stiles talks.

"I can't believe you, I honestly can't. I thought we were friends, you -"

Stevie dives, knocking Stiles to the floor, just as a Chituari jumps for him. There's a teeth rattling roar, so Natasha's got her back.

Stevie exhales, climbing off Stiles. She pulls him up, one hand curled on her shield. Stile's face is white, and his breathing is erratic. He blinks rapidly.

"Do you think we could talk about this later?" Stevie snaps, and Stiles nods.

"Yeah, later is - er, later, yeah -"

Thankfully, at that moment a police officer drags Stiles away. Stiles eyes are huge, and he doesn't look away even as the police officer tugs him to safety.

Stevie swears, and turns to rip an alien in half.

 

 

"Cap? I think we've got a solution here."

Tony's voice is tinny in her ear. Stevie's aware that Clint is down, fired his last arrow. Natasha is tiring too, panting heavily.

Stevie can barely move. It's autopilot, all of it, every motion. She has to keep fighting, will keep fighting, even as fire rains from the sky, even as blood slides down her face.

"What is it?" she demands, and her voice is hoarse.

"It's the staff," Tony begins, "If it's thrust into the teseract it'll shut the portal. Only problem is the backlash will be enormous, you'd need someone of Thor's strength to survive the energy blast."

Stevie nods, wincing as she's shoved down. She rolls over, coming up onto one knee, and lashing out.

"I'll get him on it," she replies, teeth gritted.

"There's another thing," Tony says, because of course there is, "SHIELD want to nuke New York."

"They WHAT?" Stevie snaps, "Thousands will die. Stark, I don't care what you do, stop them."

"Yes, Captain," Tony snarks, but then there's a crash over the comms, and he falls silent.

Thor won't get there in time, Stevie knows that. He's chasing Loki, and he's helping Bruce, and they need more air support as it is. Natasha is ready to drop, not that she'd ever admit it, but Stevie's not sending her up there.

It'll have to be her. The energy backlash will be fine. She's a super soldier, right?

It's ridiculous how good Stevie is at lying to herself.

It doesn't stop her from catching a ride from the nearest alien, though.

 

 

The teseract is glowing blue. Deep, unnatural. Alien. Yet familiar, because she's seen it before, hasn't she? 60 years ago, the day after she witnessed a death, the year she joined the army, the week she had _everything_ then lost it all.

Stevie grips the staff tighter, and slams it into the teseract.

It's as if the world is ripped apart.

The energy slams into her, shoving her off her feet. It's as if she's being ripped apart, every cell destroyed, blue light blinding her.

She may be screaming, but she's not sure because all she can hear is the Chituari snarling. The sky is being torn apart above her, the blue sky rippling into grey.

The energy carries Stevie off the edge of the building, and her vision is curling black at the edges, until it slides into darkness.

 

The thing is, Captain America even falls to her death fucking gracefully.

Tony really wants to have an inner bitch about Captain America and her perfect mannerisms, but then his brain kicks in, and  _shit, Captain America is falling to her fucking death._

Tony can't breathe, is already putting everything in to the thrusters, hears Jarvis say something about "elevated heart rate", but doesn't care, because there's a red, white and blue figure, plummeting  through the sky.

Tony can hear Natasha shouting, and Thor is bellowing, waving that stupid fucking hammer, because seriously it's not a yoyo. Why does he need to wind it up?

Tony's inner montage is getting more desperate, which is never a good sign, and Stevie's still falling. He's not going to get there, and Tony's vision is awash with hard concrete, and human bone, and red, red, red -

Hulk catches her. Fucking Hulk catches her, and Tony can suddenly breathe, feels the fist around his chest loosen.

He lands on the ground - on a part of sidewalk that isn't ripped to shreds - and puts up the face mask. Hulk lays her down, surprisingly gentle.

Stevie looks like a fucking Disney Princess, eyelashes ridiculously long against her cheeks, braid fanned out behind her. Natasha comes up next to him, and her black suit is stained with blood. Her face is unusually pale.

"Why did she do it?" Tony asks, and ignores the fact his voice cracked - he's a Master of Deflection.

Natasha shakes her head. "She knew Thor wouldn't get up there in time."

Thor nods gravely, big blue eyes open in horror. "It is true. I was much occupied with the Chituari - it would have taken me considerable time to continue to Stark Tower."

Stevie is still laying there, and Tony can't even tell if she's breathing. The teseract's energy managed to throw her off the building - who knows how durable super soldier bones are when they're hit by raw, alien power.

The Hulk shuffles, grunting as his small black eyes narrow. It's a testament to how worried Tony is that his brain doesn't go off on a nerdy science tangent.

"We should move her," Natasha decides.

"No, that may cause greater injury," Thor argues.

"I could give her mouth to mouth," Tony suggests.

Suddenly, Stevie stirs, and Tony freezes, heart thumping. Well, arc reactor pulsing, but you get the picture.

Stevie coughs, pushing herself up onto her hands. She touches her stomach, and winces, a bright red stain streaked across it.

"Mouth to mouth," Stevie chokes out, "Is definitely a red light."

And that's when Tony's knows everything is going to be fine.

Well, less fucked up than it could be. Which is good enough for him.


	20. My Heart Is Untamed Still

Clint wrinkles his nose. "What the hell is a Stiles?"

Stiles drops his piece of Shwarma.

"Hawkeye just said my name," he breathes, "Hawkeye - oh my God, _Hawkeye_ of the _Avengers_ said my name."

Stevie groans, and stabs her meat. They're in a Shwarma restaurant, glass smashed on the floor, and staff frantically sweeping up debris. It was Stark's idea, she's pretty sure.

Plus, she did just win a war, delivered a Asgardian war criminal to SHIELD, and save thousands of lives. A girl's got to eat.

(Stiles being there is a no brainer. He'd practically ambushed her.) _  
_

Natasha delicately spears some meat. "Is he a pet?" she asks, green eyes narrowed.

Stiles looks as though he's about an inch from hyperventilating. Considering Natasha's smirk, this is probably the point.

"Nah," Tony says, talking with his mouth full, "Illegitimate love child, right, Cap?"

Stevie glares at him, then subtly dumps some of her meat on Bruce's plate. He's exhausted, she can tell, and he glances up at her, smiling wryly.

She'd had to bite back a laugh when they'd entered the restaurant - well, climbed through the window because the door had collapsed in the fight, but whatever.

Clint had been desperate to sit next to her, as had Thor, but she couldn't abandon Bruce or Stiles. In the end, Stiles is on her left, Bruce on her right, and Thor and Clint are having some kind of manly staring contest.

 "I understand," Thor booms, slamming a hand onto the table. Stevie grabs her plate as it almost slides off. "He is your ward!"

Stiles snaps out his fan boy daze. "Hey," he protests, "I'm not a ward! If anything, she's my ward. I taught her how to use WiFi!"

Tony cocks his head to one side. "Sooo, he lives with you?"

Stevie kicks him under the table, and Tony yelps. "No, he doesn't live with me. I live in a flat in Brooklyn."

Natasha smiles at her. "A tiny flat in Brooklyn. Funny, Stark has a mansion."

"Speaking of," Stevie says loudly, and everyone freezes.

Tony looks up at her, eyes narrowed. Clint fidgets in his seat, glancing at Natasha, then to Stevie, then back again to Natasha.

"I'm just saying," Stevie shrugs, "After all of this is done, do you really think we just going to go our separate ways?"

"I'm not going back to SHIELD," Clint says softly but firmly, and Natasha squeezes his hand.

Bruce wrinkles his nose. "Neither am I," he muses, "I don't think I'll be able to go back to Calcutta anytime soon, either."

Stiles spit out his soda. "Holy shit," he chokes, "Am I witnessing the assemble of the Avengers?"

Thor shoots him a strange look, then spits out all his soda as well. Evidently, he believes this is some kind of Asgardian tradition.

Stevie smiles, and she feels hopeful - and that's strange, that's... _gorgeous_ because she hasn't felt like that for well - 60 years.

"Take a holiday," she suggests flippantly, "Then if you're in Brooklyn - look me up."

 Tony nods, eyes bright. "Or Stark mansion," he says lightly, and taps her foot gently under the table.

"Or Asgard," Thor puts in, and everyone laughs.

 

 

She doesn't know what she's doing, not really. There is no orders, no meticulous plan. But she knows these are good people, that they need her and she needs them. They're not the Commandos, and she doesn't  _want_  them to be.

She's sitting in a broken Shwarma restaurant, with a Hulk, and a God, two super spys, Iron Man, and a Stiles, and Stephanie Rogers is no longer alone.

 

 

She thinks Bucky would approve.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who doesn't know, this will be a 3/4 part series. Anyone who asked will I do Winter Soldier....would I really miss out on identity porn and hate sex???
> 
> Second note, updates will be once a week. I'm really sorry but I have sixth form, and I do need to do some work!!
> 
> However, I do write everything in advance and I'm always regular about my updates :) so please don't be put off!!
> 
> Kudos, comments appreciated, and see you all in a week!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fan Art for I'm Waking Up To Ash And Dust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010945) by [Lymmel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lymmel/pseuds/Lymmel)
  * [Fan Art for I'm Waking Up To Ash And Dust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010945) by [Lymmel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lymmel/pseuds/Lymmel)




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